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RETURN  TO 

Tlie  Lilora-ry  of 
W.  L,  ADAMS. 


;  COlSTFESSIOlSr ; 

OR, 

THE  BLIND  HEART. 

A  DOMESTIC  STOKY.J 
BY  W.  GILMORE  SIMMS, 

AUTHOR   OP    "GUY    RIVERS,"   "RICHARD    HURDIS,"   "BORDER    BEAGLES,1' 
"  BEAUCHAMPE,"    "KATHARINE    WALTON,"    "THE  SCOUT,"  ETC. 


WAGNER.    But  of  the  world— the  heart,  the  mind  of  man, 
How  happy  could  we  know  1 

FAUST.  What  can  we  know  P 

Who  dares  bestow  the  infant  his  true  name  ? 
The  few  who  felt  and  knew,  but  blindly  gave 
Their  knowledge  to  the  multitude— they  fell  1 
Incapable  to  keep  their  full  hearts  in. 
They,  from  the  first  of  immemorial  time, 
Were  crucified  or  burnt. 

GOETHE'S  FAUST,  MS.  Version. 


and  Kefcfoed  €Mfion. 


CLEVELAND : 
THE  BURROWS  BROTHERS  COMPANY. 

1888. 


PS 


RETURN  TO 

^ 


W-  L.  ADAMS.  | 


INTRODUCTION. 


jT  is,  no  doubt,  a  departure  from  the  general  laws  of  Kature, 
when  we  exhibit,  in  a  work  of  art,  in  fiction,  the  exercise  of  any 
one  passion  exclusively ;  when,  as  in  the  case  of  Miss  Joanna 
Baillie,  in  her  "  Plays  of  the  Passions,"  we  endeavor  to  individ- 
ualize a  single  passion  to  the  exclusion  of  all  the  rest,  and 
seek  to  build  our  interest  entirely  upon  the  exercise  of  the  one 
feature,  or  quality  of  mind  or  heart,  which  we  have  thus  estab- 
lished in  this  morbid  ascendency.  Nature  does  not  usually 
work  after  this  fashion.  The  passions  dwell  in  groups  and  fam 
ilies,  and  there  is  perpetual  play  and  co-operation  between 
them.  One  of  them  may,  indeed,  exercise  a  predominating 
power;  but  the  others  are  still  visibly  working,  as  tributaries  — 
certainly  a  portion  of  them — and  their  presence  is  to  be  de- 
tected in  the  general  agency ;  affording  that  sort  of  relief  to 
the  person  in  whose  fortunes  the  chief  interest  lies,  without 
which  a  passion  resolves  itself  finally  into  madness.  There  is 
little  question,  indeed,  that  not  only  do  most  madnesses  arise 
from  such  an  absorbed  condition  of  the  mind,  which  thus  subju- 
gates all  the  energies  to  a  single  faculty,  and  compels  them  in  a 
single  direction,  and  keeps  them  intensely  exercised  and  sorely 
straitened ;  but  that  all  intensity,  which  throws  a  single  passiov 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

into  extreme  superiority,  for  any  length  of  time,  so  as  to  leave 
the  rest  wholly  in  abeyance,  will  so  impair  the  intellectual 
strength  as  to  render  of  questionable  sanity  all  the  perform- 
ances of  the  party  while  in  this  condition.  That  this  condition 
does  and  must  exist  occasionally,  we  know ;  for  we  have  mad- 
ness and  monomania  in  the  world :  but,  as  it  is  the  policy  of 
neither  moralist  nor  dramatist  to  select  a  madman  for  his  hero/ 
so  it  is  false  practice  in  art,  and  a  great  mistake,  so  to  individu- 
alize a  passion  until  it  acts  like  madness— unless,  where  we 
make  the  character  wholly  subordinate  to  the  fiction,  and  use 
it  merely  as  a  part  of  the  inferior  agency  in  bringing  about 
results  which  are  requisite  for  the  large  conditions  of  the  story ; 
and  even  this  must  be  done  very  judiciously,  and  without  ma- 
king a  too  free  use  of  the  morbid  agency. 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  not  erred  against  my  own  rule 
in  the  tale  which  follows ;  but  I  am  sure  that  I  have  had  no 
purpose  to  violate  it.  Indeed,  the  form  of  monomania  which 
I  have  here  sought  to  delineate,  I  have  endeavored  tc  relieve 
by  shows  of  other  passions  —  nay,  by  the  free  exercise  of 
other  passions,  and  strong  ones  too  —  which  would,  under 
other  circumstances,  in  the  case  of  an  individual  trained  by  a 
more  indulgent  fortune,  have  fully  availed  to  neutralize  the  one 
moral  plague-spot,  which,  let  to  grow,  and  stimulated  in  its 
growth  by  external  pressure,  became  finally,  in  the  case  of  my 
hero,  big  enough,  not  only  to  cover  the  whole  heart,  but  to  im- 
pair the  vigorous  working  of  an  otherwise  noble  bra:n.  Self- 
esteem  is,  here,  a  passion  ;  ambition,  a  passion ;  love,  a  passion : 
there  are  nice  sensibilities,  an  honorable  spirit,  great  gentle- 
ness, warm  sympathies,  and  many  talents.  But  the  self-esteem, 
in  an  ambitious  nature,  goaded  by  continual  wrong,  grows  into 
one  of  the  most  jealous  of  all  passions  ;  and,  in  the  case  of  one 
equally  endowed  with  a  fine  heart  and  noble  faculties,  it  is  apt 
to  put  on  the  most  subtle  as  well  as  the  most  fiery  form  of  jeal- 
ousy. The  jealousy  of  self-estceii),  by-the-way,  is  of  far  greatei 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

intensity  than  that  which  springs  from  mortified  affections  alone  \ 
and  this  is  the  source  of  the  diseased  development  which  I  here 
delineate. — Enough,  perhaps,  on  this  head,  particularly  as  my 
ohject,  throughout  the  tale,  has  been  to  make  the  hero  lay  bare 
the  secret  of  his  own  disease,  and,  step  by  step,  to  exhibit  its 
successive  symptoms. 

Portions  of  the  following  narrative  were  among  the  earliest 
prose-writings  of  the  author.  The  materials  are  gathered  from 
facts,  in  a  domestic  history,  the  sources  of  which  he  believes  to 
be  unquestionable.  Some  of  the  events  occurred,  indeed,  un- 
der his  own  observation.  Of  this  early  manuscript  he  had 
almost  lost  all  recollection,  until  he  happened  upon  it  while 
exploring  the  contents  of  a  large  mass  of  similar  beginnings  of 
his  youth.  The  reperusal  of  the  fragment  possessed  his  mind 
so  warmly  with  the  subject,  that  he  could  not  resist  the  desire 
to  resume  it.  Attempting  to  arrange  it  for  the  press,  he  was 
led  away  by  his  own  interest  in  the  psychological  history ;  and 
the  work  grew  beneath  his  hands  to  a  size  far  exceeding  his 
original  purpose,  which  contemplated  nothing  more  than  the 
construction  of  a  rapid  magazine  article. 

A  work  so  growing,  without  design,  may  be  strictly  legiti- 
mate, as  the  natural  progress  of  the  author's  mind  to  the  solu- 
tions of  his  problems,  yet  fail  in  every  essential,  as  a  work  of 
interest  for  the  reader,  or  even  of  art.  The  mere  logical  array 
of  facts,  distribution  and  arrangement  of  the  proper  relations  of 
parties  and  events — all  these,  however  well  done,  may  yet  con- 
stitute no  more  claim  to  art  than  may  be  urged  in  behalf  of  a 
well-put  law  argument.  The  defect  in  design  will  most  proba- 
bly be  a  loss  of  warmth  and  color  to  the  picture,  to  speak  in 
the  language  of  the  studio.  Such  a  process  of  gradual  expan- 
sion, without  heed  to  the  design,  is  liable  to  many  dangers  and 
objections,  in  addition  to  the  deficiency  already  mentioned  ;  not 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

day  by  day,  to  the  labors  of  the  anatomist  merely — to  bare 
the  nerves,  and  sinews,  and  tissues,,  and  limbs,  which  we  should 
prefer  to  clothe  and  color — is  apt  to  become  a  somewhat  dreary, 
even  when  an  exciting,  performance ;  and  this  is  the  danger 
always  of  one  who,  in  fiction,  works  under  the  surface,  rejecting 
those  exhibitions  of  the  moods  externally  which  supply  the  per- 
formance with  its  inoidents.  We  prefer  the  salient  action  to 
the  contemplation  of  the  silent  agony;  would  rather  behold 
the  action  than  have  it  described  to  us;  must  see  Richard 
writhing  upon  his  couch,  even  while  we  listen  to  his  dream ; 
and  are  apt  to  feel  it  somewhat  wearisome  to  trace  the  secret 
necessity  of  the  soul,  even  though,  in  doing  so,  we  are  allowed 
to  pierce  its  most  hidden  mysteries.  We  prefer  to  hear  it  cry 
aloud  its  agonies,  rather  than  take  upon  ourselves  the  labor  of 
seeking  them  where  they  lie  concealed,  and  watching  the  secret 
struggles  by  which  they  are  subdued. 

To  readers,  therefore,  who  are  simply  in  search  of  incident, 
and  that  sort  of  interest  which  appeals  to  the  blood  rather  than 
the  brain,  it  may  be  well,  by  way  of  caution,  and  to  prevent 
unreasonable  expectation,  to  say  that  this  "  Confession  of  tho 
Blind  Heart"  offers  very  little  encouragement.  It  partakes  of 
few  of  the  features  of  that  school  of  Dumas,  and  Reynolds,  and 
Ainsworth,  in  which  the  heart  is  made  to  roar  out  its  hopes  or 
sufferings,  under  incessant  provocation  and  stimuli.  It  has  its 
"  disastrous  chances ;"  but  with  few  of  those  "  moving  accidents 
by  flood  and  field" — those  "hair-breadth  'scapes  i' the  immi- 
nent deadly  breach"  —  which  so  richly  garnish  in  general  the 
tales  of  these  popular  writers. 

Its  interest  is  required  to  arise  from  other  sources.  It  con- 
templates another  class  of  readers  The  trials  and  troubles  of 
the  hero  are  not  only  those  of  simple,  domestic  life,  but  they 
are  of  the  sensibilities  rather  than  the  blood  —  diseased  sensi- 
bilities, where  the  passions,  exciting  and  erring,  develop  them- 
selves in  faults,  vices,  and  weaknesses,  rather  than  in  crimes ; 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

and  where,  even  when  crime  occurs,  it  is  motiveless  as  crime, 
not  purposed  as  crime,  but,  under  a  blind  judgment,  as  justice 
simply.  The  attempt  is  made  to  analyze  the  heart  in  some  of 
its  obliquities  and  perversities ;  to  follow  its  toils,  pursue  its 
phases,  and  to  trace,  if  possible,  the  secret  of  its  self-deceptions, 
its  self-baffling  inconsistencies,  its  seemingly  wilful  warfare  with 
reason  and  the  sober  experience.  This  is  the  simple  design  of 
the  narrative,  which,  with  great  unity  of  plan  and  purpose, 
lacks  all  the  usual  varieties  of  art  in  prose  fiction.  It  belongs, 
somewhat,  to  the  class  of  works  which  the  genius  of  Godwin 
has  made  to  triumph  in  "  Caleb  Williams,"  even  over  a  per- 
verse system. 

The  writer  reviews  his  work,  now  that  it  is  finished  (and 
now  again  when  he  revises  its  pages  for  the  last  time),  with 
many  misgivings.  He  is  not  blind  to  the  difficulty  of  describing 
the  struggles  of  a  blind  heart — taking  that  one  heart  up,  almost 
alone,  and  making  it  narrate  its  own  dreary  consciousness  of 
wrong-doing,  of  wrong-enduring,  and  of  equal  suffering  in  both 
conditions.  Perhaps  there  can  be  no  performance  more  diffi- 
cult— none  less  likely  to  appeal  to  the  merely  popular  reader 
— less  likely  to  be  successful,  in  common  opinion,  unless  with 
a  small  and  peculiarly-constituted  circle.  There  is  no  relief  to 
the  picture — no  background,  or  it  is  all  background  —  gloomy 
even  with  its  glare — an  ominous  shadow  hanging  like  a  cloud 
over  the  whole,  and  serving  as  the  curtain  which,  half  the  time, 
conceals  the  sacrifice.  Success,  of  a  popular  kind,  is  rarely 
possible  in  any  work  of  fiction  where  events,  which  naturally 
speak  for  themselves,  are  mostly  rejected  from  use ;  where  the 
whole  history  depends  for  development  upon  the  silent  progress 
of  tho  thoughts,  and  sentiments,  and  emotions — the  passions 
themselves  working  as  under-currents  of  moods  and  feelings  — 
moods  which  look,  but  speak  not,  and  feelings  that  boil  for  ever 
in  fiery  fountains,  but  are  never  suffered  to  overflow !  A  sin- 
gle soul  is  here  selected  from  the  rest,  put  in  bonds,  put  to  the 

1* 


10  INTRODUCTION. 

torture,  and  made  to  declare  its  dreary  experience  through  iti 
groans.  It  is  to  suffer,  not  to  act.  It  has  no  foil,  no  assistants, 
there  is  no  chorus ;  no  other  actors  are  suffered  on  the  scene. 
Its  cry  is  necessarily  a  monotone.  Its  own  intensity  must  sup- 
ply the  absence  of  exciting  action.  Can  it  make  itself  heard, 
felt  —  secure  justice,  compel  sympathy — by  this  one  cry  of 
agony  ?  That  is  the  question.  In  degree  with  the  intensity 
of  its  own  agony,  its  own  severe  simplicity  and  truth,  its  own 
earnest  feeling  of  sincerity,  and  the  injustice  of  its  suffering 
under  the  decree  of  an  ingeniously  perverse  fate,  will  be  the 
credence  we  accord  to  its  appeal.  It  speaks,  or  not,  to  the 
purpose,  as  one  giving  evidence.  Perhaps,  like  the  frequent 
witness  in  other  courts,  it  may  speak  some  —  nay,  much — yet 
not  the  whole  truth.  The  writer,  however,  has  striven  that 
such  should  not  be  the  case.  He  has  conducted  the  cross- 
examination  with  a  searching  scrutiny ;  and,  if  any  matters  of 
evidence  are  left  unrevealed,  the  fault  is  rather  in  the  lawyer 
than  the  witness.  The  courteous  reader  will  be  pleased  to  per- 
ceive this  fault  in  neither.  In  neither — we  answer  for  both— 

i«  it  wilful. 

W.  G.  S. 


CONFESSION, 


OR 


THE  BLIND  HEART. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  Who  dares  bestow  the  infant  his  true  name  ? 
The  few  who  felt  and  knew,  but  blindly  gave 
Their  knowledge  to  the  multitude  —  they  fell 
Incapable  to  keep  their  full  hearts  in, 
They,  from  the  first  of  immemorial  time, 
Were  crucified  or  burnt." — GOETHE'S  Faust. 

THE  pains  and  penalties  of  folly  are  not  necessarily  death. 
They  were  in  old  times,  perhaps,  according  to  the  text,  and  he 
who  kept  not  to  himself  the  secrets  of  his  silly  heart  was  surely 
crucified  or  burnt.  Though  lacking  in  penalties  extreme  like 
these,  the  present  is  not  without  its  own.  All  times,  indeed, 
Lave  their  penalties  for  folly,  much  more  certainly  than  for 
crime ;  and  this  fact  furnishes  one  of  the  most  human  argumentn 
in  favor  of  the  doctrine  of  rewards  and  punishments  in  the  fu- 
ture state.  But  these  penalties  are  not  always  mortifications 
and  trials  of  the  flesh.  There  are  punishments  of  the  soul ;  the 
spirit ;  the  sensibilities ;  the  intellect  —  which  are  most  usually 
the  consequences  of  one's  own  folly.  There  is  a  perversity  of 
mood  which  is  the  worst  of  all  such  penalties.  There  are  tor- 
tures which  the  foolish  heart  equally  inflicts  and  endures.  The 
passions  riot  on  their  own  nature ;  and,  feeding  as  they  do  upon 


12  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

that  bosom  from  which  they  spring,  and  in  which  they  flourish, 
may,  not  inaptly,  be  likened  to  that  unnatural  brood  which 
gnaws  into  the  heart  of  the  mother-bird,  and  sustains  its  exist- 
ence at  the  expense  of  hers.  Meetly  governed  from  the  be- 
ginning, they  are  dutiful  agents  that  bless  themselves  in  their 
own  obedience ;  but,  pampered  to  excess,  they  are  tyrants  that 
never  do  justice,  until  at  last,  when  they  fitly  conclude  the  work 
of  destruction  by  their  own. 

The  narrative  which  follows  is  intended  to  illustrate  these 
opinions.  It  is  the  story  of  a  blind  heart  —  nay,  of  blind  hearts 
—  blind  through  their  own  perversity  —  blind  to  their  own  in- 
terests—  their  own  joys,  hopes,  and  proper  sources  of  delight. 
In  narrating  my  own  fortunes,  I  depict  theirs;  and  the  old 
leaven  of  wilfulness,  which  belongs  to  our  nature,  has,  in  greater 
or  less  degree,  a  place  in  every  human  bosom. 

I  was  the  only  one  surviving  of  several  sons.  My  parents 
died  while  I  was  yet  an  infant.  I  never  knew  them.  I  was 
left  to  the  doubtful  charge  of  relatives,  who  might  as  well  have 
been  strangers ;  and,  from  their  treatment,  I  learned  to  doubt 
and  to  distrust  among  the  first  fatal  lessons  of  my  youth.  I  felt 
myself  unloved — nay,  as  I  fancied,  disliked  and  despised.  I 
was  not  merely  an  orphan.  I  was  poor,  and  was  felt  as  burden- 
some by  those  connections  whom  a  dread  of  public  opinion, 
rather  than  a  sense  of  duty  and  affection,  persuaded  to  take  me 
to  their  homes.  Here,  then,  when  little  more  than  three  years 
old,  I  found  myself — a  lonely  brat,  whom  servants  might  flout 
at  pleasure,  and  whom  superiors  only  regarded  with  a  frown. 
I  was  just  old  enough  to  remember  that  I  had  once  experienced 
very  different  treatment.  I  had  felt  the  caresses  of  a  fond 
mother  —  I  had  heard  the  cheering  accents  of  a  generous  and  a 
gentle  father.  The  one  had  soothed  my  griefs  and  encouraged 
my  hopes — the  other  had  stimulated  my  energies  and  prompted 
my  desires.  Let  no  one  fancy  that,  because  I  was  a  child,  these 
lessons  were  premature.  All  education,  to  be  valuable,  must 
begin  with  the  child's  first  efforts  at  discrimination.  Suddenly, 
both  of  these  fond  parents  disappeared,  and  I  was  just  young 
enough  to  wonder  why. 

The  change  in  my  fortunes  first  touched  my  sensibilities, 
which  it  finally  excited  until  they  became  diseased.  Neglected. 


THE   ORPHAN.  13 

if  not  scorned,  I  habitually  looked  to  encounter  nothing  but 
neglect  or  scorn.  The  sure  result  of  this  condition  of  mind  was 
a  look  and  feeling,  on  my  parr,  of  habitual  defiance.  I  grew 
up  with  the  mood  of  one  who  goes  forth  with  a  moral  certainty 
that  he  must  meet  and  provide  against  an  enemy.  But  I  am 
now  premature. 

The  uncle  and  aunt  with  whom  I  found  shelter  were  what  is 
called  in  ordinary  parlance,  very  good  people.  They  attended 
the  most  popular  church  with  most  popular  punctuality.  They 
prayed  with  unction  —  subscribed  to  all  the  charities  which  had 
publicity  and  a  fashionable  list  to  recommend  them — helped 
to  send  missionaries  to  Calcutta,  Bombay,  Owyhee,  and  other 
outlandish  regions — paid  their  debts  when  they  became  due 
with  commendable  readiness  — and  were,  in  all  out-of-door  re- 
spects, the  very  sort  of  people  who  might  congratulate  them- 
selves, and  thank  God  that  they  were  very  far  superior  to  their 
neighbors.  My  uncle  had  morning  prayers  at  home,  and  my 
aunt  thumbed  Hannah  More  in  the  evening ;  though  it  must  be 
admitted  that  the  former  could  not  always  forbear,  coming  from 
church  on  the  sabbath,  to  inquire  into  the  last  news  of  the 
Liverpool  cotton  market,  and  my  aunt  never  failed,  when  they 
reached  home,  on  the  same  blessed  day,  to  make  the  house 
ring  with  another  sort  of  eloquence  than  that  to  which  she  had 
listened  with  such  sanctimonious  devotion  from  the  lips  of  the 
preacher.  There  were  some  other  little  offsets  against  the  per- 
fectly evangelical  character  of  their  religion.  One  of  these  — 
the  first  that  attracted  my  infant  consideration  —  was  naturally 
one  which  more  directly  concerned  myself.  I  soon  discovered 
that,  while  I  was  sent  to  an  ordinary  charity  school  of  the 
country,  in  threadbare  breeches,  made  of  the  meanest  material 
—  their  own  son — a  gentle  and  good,  but  puny  boy,  whom  their 
indulgence  injured,  and,  perhaps,  finally  destroyed  —  was  de- 
spatched to  a  fashionable  institution  which  taught  all  sorts  of 
ologies  —  dressed  in  such  choice  broadcloth  and  costly  habili- 
ments, as  to  make  him  an  object  of  envy  and  even  odium  among 
all  his  less  fortunate  school-fellows. 

Poor  little  Edgar  !  His  own  good  heart  and  correct  natural 
understanding  showed  him  the  equal  folly  of  that  treatment  to 
which  he  was  subjected,  and  the  injustice  and  unkindness  which 


14  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

distinguished  mine.  He  strove  to  make  amends,  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned,  for  the  error  of  his  parents.  He  was  my  playmate 
whenever  he  was  permitted,  but  even  this  permission  was  qual- 
ified by  some  remark,  some  direction  or  counsel,  from  one  or 
other  of  his  parents,  which  was  intended  to  let  him  know,  and 
make  me  feel,  that  there  was  a  monstrous  difference  between  us. 

The  servants  discovered  this  difference  as  quickly  as  did  the 
objects  of  it;  and  though  we  were  precisely  of  one  age,  and  I 
was  rather  the  largest  of  the  two,  yet,  in  addressing  us,  they 
paid  him  the  deference  which  should  only  be  shown  to  superior 
age,  and  treated  me  with  the  contumely  only  due  to  inferior 
merit.  It  was  "  Master  Edgar/'  when  he  was  spoken  to  —  and 
"  you,"  when  I  was  the  object  of  attention. 

I  do  not  speak  of  these  things  as  of  substantial  evils  affecting 
my  condition.  Perhaps,  in  one  or  more  respects,  they  were 
benefits.  They  taught  me  humility  in  the  first  place,  and  made 
that  humility  independence,  by  showing  me  that  the  lesson  was 
bestowed  in  wantonness,  and  not  with  the  purpose  of  improve- 
ment. And,  in  proportion  as  my  physical  nature  suffered  their 
neglect,  it  acquired  strength  by  the  very  roughening  to  which 
that  neglect  exposed  it.  In  this  I  possessed  a  vast  advantage 
over  my  little  companion.  His  frame,  naturally  feeble,  sunk 
under  the  oppressive  tenderness  to  which  the  constant  care  of 
a  vain  father,  a  doting  mother,  and  sycophantic  friends  and  ser- 
vants, subjected  it.  The  attrition  of  boy  with  boy,  in  the  half-man- 
ly sports  of  schoolboy  life — its  very  strifes  and  scuffles — would 
have  brought  his  blood  into  adequate  circulation,  and  hardened 
his  bones,  and  given  elasticity  to  his  sinews.  But  from  all  these 
influences,  he  was  carefully  preserved  and  protected.  He  was 
not  allowed  to  run,  for  fear  of  being  too  much  heated.  He  could 
not  jump,  lest  he  might  break  a  blood-vessel.  In  the  ball  play 
he  might  get  an  eye  knocked  out ;  and  even  tops  and  marbles 
were  forbidden,  lest  he  should  soil  his  hands  and  wear  out  the 
knees  of  his  green  breeches.  If  he  indulged  in  these  sports  it 
was  only  by  stealth,  and  at  the  fearful  cost  of  a  falsehood  on 
every  such  occasion.  When  will  parents  learn  that  entirely  to 
crush  and  keep  down  the  proper  nature  of  the  young,  is  to  pro- 
duce inevitable  perversity,  and  stimulate  the  boyish  ingenuity 
to  crime? 


THE  ORPHAN.  15 

With  me  the  case  was  very  different.  If  cuffing  and  kicking 
could  have  killed,  I  should  have  died  many  sudden  and  severe 
deaths  in  the  rough  school  to  which  I  was  sent.  If  eyes  were 
likely  to  he  lost  in  the  campus,  corded  balls  of  India-rubber,  or 
still  harder  ones  of  wood,  impelled  by  shinny  (goff )  sticks,  would 
have  obliterated  all  of  mine  though  they  had  been  numerous  as 
those  of  Argus.  My  limbs  and  eyes  escaped  all  injury ;  my 
frame  grew  tall  and  vigorous  in  consequence  of  neglect,  even 
as  the  forest-tree,  left  to  the  conflict  of  all  the  winds  of  heaven ; 
while  my  poor  little  friend,  Edgar,  grew  daily  more  and  more 
diminutive,  just  as  some  plant,  which  nursing  and  tendance 
within  doors  deprive  of  the  wholesome  sunshine  and  generous 
breezes  of  the  sky.  The  paleness  of  his  cheek  increased,  the 
languor  of  his  frame,  the  meagerness  of  his  form,  the  inability 
of  his  nature !  He  was  pining  rapidly  away,  in  spite  of  that 
excessive  care,  which,  perhaps,  had  been  in  the  first  instance, 
the  unhappy  source  of  all  his  feebleness. 

He  died  —  and  I  became  an  object  of  greater  dislike  than 
ever  to  his  parents.  They  could  not  but  contrast  my  strength 
with  his  feebleness — my  improvement  with  his  decline — and 
when  they  remembered  how  little  had  been  their  regard  for  me- 
and  how  much  for  him — without  ascribing  the  difference  of 
result  to  the  true  cause — they  repined  at  the  ways  of  Provi- 
dence, and  threw  upon  me  the  reproach  of  it.  They  gave  me 
less  heed  and  fewer  smiles  than  ever.  If  I  improved  at  school, 
it  was  well,  perhaps ;  but  they  never  inquired,  and  I  could  not 
help  fancying  that  it  was  with  a  positive  expression  of  vexation, 
that  my  aunt  heard,  on  one  occasion,  from  my  teacher,  in  the 
presence  of  some  guests,  that  I  was  likely  to  be  an  honor  to 
the  family. 

"  An  honor  to  the  family,  indeed  !"  This  was  the  clear  ex- 
pression in  that  Christian  lady's  eyes,  as  I  saw  them  sink  im- 
mediately after  in  a  scornful  examination  of  my  rugged  frame 
and  coarse  garments. 

The  family  had  its  own  sources  of  honor,  was  the  calm  opin- 
ion of  both  my  patrons,  as  they  turned  their  eyes  upon  their 
only  remaining  child  —  a  little  girl  about  five  years  old,  who 
was  playing  around  them  on  the  carpet.  This  opinion  was  also 
mine,  even  then;  and  my  eyes  followed  theirs  in  the  same 


16  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

direction.  Julia  Clifford  was  one  of  the  sweetest  little  fairies 
in  the  world.  Tender-hearted,  and  just,  and  generous,  like  the 
dear  little  brother,  whom  she  had  only  known  to  lose,  she  was 
yet  as  playful  as  a  kitten.  I  was  twice  her  age — just  ten — 
at  this  period  ;  and*  a  sort  of  instinct  led  me  to  adopt  the  little 
creature,  in  place  of  poor  Edgar,  in  the  friendship  of  my  boyish 
heart.  I  drew  her  in  her  little  wagon  —  carried  her  over  the 
brooklet  —  constructed  her  tiny  playthings  —  and  in  considera- 
tion of  my  usefulness,  in  most  generally  keeping  her  in  the  best 
of  humors,  her  mother  was  not  unwilling  that  I  should  be  her 
frequent  playmate.  Nay,  at  such  times  she  could  spare  a  gentle 
word  even  to  me,  as  one  throws  a  bone  to  the  dog,  who  has 
jumped  a  pole,  or  plunged  into  the  water,  or  worried  some  other 
dog,  for  his  amusement.  At  no  other  period  did  my  worthy 
aunt  vouchsafe  me  such  unlooked-for  consideration. 

But  Julia  Clifford  was  not  my  only  friend.  I  had  made  another 
shortly  before  the  death  of  Edgar ;  though,  passingly  it  may  be 
said,  friendship-making  was  no  easy  business  with  a  nature  such 
as  mine  had  now  become.  The  inevitable  result  of  such  treat- 
ment as  that  to  which  my  early  years  had  been  subjected,  was 
fully  realized.  I  was  suspicious  to  the  last  degree  of  all  new 
faces  — jealous  of  the  regards  of  the  old ;  devoting  myself  where 
my  affections  were  set  and  requiring  devotion — rigid,  exclusive 
devotion — from  their  object  in  return.  There  was  a  terrible 
earnestness  in  all  my  moods  which  made  my  very  love  a  thing 
to  be  feared.  I  was  no  trifler — I  could  not  suffer  to  be  trifled 
with — and  the  ordinary  friendships  of  man  or  boy  can  not  long 
endure  the  exactions  of  such  a  disposition.  The  penalties  are 
usually  thought  to  be  —  and  are — infinitely  beyond  the  rewards 
and  benefits. 

My  intimacies  with  William  Edgerton  were  first  formed  under 
circumstances  which,  of  all  others,  are  most  likely  to  establish 
them  on  a  firm  basis  in  our  days  of  boyhood.  He  came  to  my 
rescue  one  evening,  when,  returning  from  school,  I  was  beset  by 
three  other  boys,  who  had  resolved  on  drubbing  me.  My 
haughty  deportment  had  vexed  their  self-esteem,  and,  as  the 
same  cause  had  left  me  with  few  sympathies,  it  was  taken  for 
granted  that  the  unfairness  of  their  assault  would  provoke  n»> 
censure.  They  were  mistaken.  In  the  moment  of  my  greatest 


THE  ORPHAN.  17 

difficulty,  William  Edgerton  dashed  in  among  them.  My  exigen 
cy  rendered  his  assistance  a  very  singular  benefit.  My  nose  was 
already  broken — one  of  my  eyes  sealed  up  for  a  week's  holy  day ; 
and  I  was  suffering  from  small  annoyances,  of  hip,  heart,  leg,  and 
thigh,  occasioned  by  the  repeated  cuffs,  and  the  reckless  kicks, 
which  I  was  momently  receiving  from  three  points  of  the  compass. 
It  is  true  that  my  enemies  had  their  hurts  to  complain  of  also ;  but 
the  odds  were  too  greatly  against  me  for  any  conduct  or  strength 
of  mine  to  neutralize  or  overcome ;  and  it  was  only  by  Edgerton's 
interposition  that  I  was  saved  from  utter  defeat  and  much  worse 
usage.  The  beating  I  had  already  suffered.  I  was  sore  from 
head  to  foot  for  a  week  after ;  and  my  only  consolation  was 
that  my  enemies  left  the  ground  in  a  condition,  if  anything, 
something  worse  than  my  own. 

But  I  had  gained  a  friend,  and  that  was  a  sweet  recompense, 
sweeter  to  me,  by  far,  than  it  is  found  or  felt  by  schoolboys 
usually.  None  could  know  or  comprehend  the  force  of  my 
attachment — my  dependence  upon  the  attachment  of  which  I  felt 
assured  !  —  none  but  those  who,  with  an  earnest,  impetuous  nature 
like  rny  own  —  doomed  to  denial  from  the  first,  and  treated  with 
injustice  and  unkindness — has  felt  the  pang  of  a  worse  privation 
from  the  beginning ;  —  the  privation  of  that  sustenance,  which  is 
the  "  very  be  all  and  end  all"  of  its  desire  and  its  life — and  the 
denial  of  which  chills  and  repels  its  fervor — throws  it  back  in 
despondency  upon  itself — fills  it  with  suspicion,  and  racks  it 
with  a  never-ceasing  conflict  between  its  apprehension  and  its 
hopes. 

Edgerton  supplied  a  vacuum  which  my  bosom  had  long  felt. 
He  was,  however,  very  unlike,  in  most  respects,  to  myself. 
He  was  rather  phlegmatic  than  ardent  —  slow  in  his  fancies,  and 
shy  in  his  associations  from  very  fastidiousness.  He  was  too 
much  governed  by  nice  tastes,  to  be  an  active  or  performing 
youth  ;  and  too  much  restrained  by  them  also,  to  be  a  popular 
one.  This,  perhaps,  was  the  secret  influence  which  brought  us 
together.  A  mutual  sense  of  isolation — no  matter  from  what 
cause — awakened  the  sympathies  between  us.  Our  ties  were 
formed,  on  my  part,  simply  because  I  was  assured  that  I  should 
have  no  rival ;  and  on  his,  possibly,  because  he  perceived  in  my 
haughty  reserve  of  character,  a  sufficient  security  that  his  fas- 


18 

tidious  sensibilities  would  not  be  likely  to  suffer  outrage  at  my 
hands.  In  every  other  respect  our  moods  and  tempers  were 
utterly  unlike.  I  thought  him  dull,  very  frequently,  when  he 
was  only  balancing  between  jealous  and  sensitive  tastes; — and 
ignorant  of  the  actual,  when,  in  fact,  his  ignorance  simply  arose 
from  the  decided  preference  which  he  gave  to  the  foreign  and 
abstract.  He  was  contemplative  —  an  idealist ;  I  was  impetuous 
and  devoted  to  the  real  and  living  world  around  me,  in  which  I 
was  disposed  to  mingle  with  an  eagerness  which  might  have  been 
fatal ;  but  for  that  restraint  to  which  my  own  distrust  of  all  thingg 
and  persons  habitually  subjected  me. 


BOY  "ASBKWS.  19 


CHAPTER   II. 

BOY    PASSIONS  —  A   PROFESSION    CHOSEN, 

BETWEEN  William  Edgerton  and  Julia  Clifford  my 
life  and  best  affections  were  divided,  entirely,  if  not  equally.  I 
lived  for  no  other  —  I  cared  to  seek,  to  know,  no  other — and 
yet  I  often  shrunk  from  both.  Even  at  that  boyish  period,  while 
the  heavier  cares  and  the  more  painful  vexations  of  life  were 
wanting  to  our  annoyance,  I  had  those  of  that  gnawing  nature, 
which  seemed  to  be  born  of  the  tree  whose  evil  growth  "  br  jught 
death  into  the  world  and  all  our  wo."  The  pang  of  a  nameless 
jealousy — a  sleepless  distrust — rose  unbidden  to  my  heart  at 
seasons,  when,  in  truth,  there  was  no  obvious  cause.  When 
Julia  was  most  gentle — when  William  was  most  generous — 
even  then,  I  had  learned  to  repulse  them  with  an  indifference 
which  I  did  not  feel — a  rudeness  which  brought  to  my  heart  a 
pain  even  greater  than  that  which  my  wantonness  inflicted  upon 
theirs.  I  knew,  even  then,  that  I  was  perverse,  unjust ;  and 
that  there  was  a  littleness  in  the  vexatious  mood  in  which  I 
indulged,  that  was  unjust  to  my  own  feelings,  and  unbecoming 
in  a  manly  nature.  But  even  though  I  felt  all  this,  as  thoroughly 
as  I  could  ever  feel  it  under  any  situation,  I  still  could  not  suc- 
ceed in  overcoming  tha'  insane  will  which  drove  me  to  its  indul- 
gence. 

Vainly  have  I  striven  to  account  for  the  blindness  of  heart  — 
for  such  it  is,  in  all  such  cases  —  which  possessed  me.  Was  there 
anything  in  my  secret  nature,  born  at  my  birth  and  growing 
with  my  growth  —  which  impelled  me  to  this  wilfulness.  I  can 
scarcely  believe  so ;  but,  after  serious  reflection,  am  compelled 
to  think  that  it  was  the  strict  result  of  moods  growing  out  of  the 
particular  treatment  to  which  I  had  been  subjected.  It  does 
not  seem  unnatural  that  an  ardent  temper  of  mind,  willing  to 


iO  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

confide,  looking  to  love  and  affection  for  the  only  aliment  which 
it  most  and  chiefly  desires,  and  repelled  in  this  search,  frowned 
on  hy  its  superiors  as  if  it  were  something  base,  will,  in  time, 
grow  to  be  habitually  wilful,  even  as  the  treatment  which  has 
schooled  it.  Had  I  been  governed  and  guided  by  justice,  I  am 
sure  that  I  should  never  have  been  unjust. 

My  waywardness  in  childhood  did  not  often  amount  to  rudeness, 
and  never,  I  may  safely  say,  where  Julia  was  concerned.  In 
her  case,  it  was  simply  tlie  exercise  of  a  sullenness  that  repelled 
her  approaches,  even  as  its  own  approaches  had  been  repelled 
by  others.  At  such  periods  I  went  apart,  communing  sternly 
with  myself,  refusing  the  sympathy  that  I  most  yearned  after, 
and  resolving  not  to  be  comforted.  Let  me  do  the  dear  child  th 
justice  to  say  that  the  only  effect  which  this  conduct  had  upon 
her,  was  to  increase  her  anedeties  to  soothe  the  repulsive  spirit 
which  should  have  offended  her.  Perhaps,  to  provoke  this 
anxiety  in  one  it  loves,  is  the  chief  desire  of  such  a  spirit.  It 
loves  to  behold  the  persevering  devotion,  which  it  yet  perversely 
toils  to  discourage.  It  smiles  within,  with  a  bitter  triumph,  as 
it  contemplates  its  own  power,  to  impart  the  same  sorrow  which 
a  similar  perversity  has  already  made  it  feel. 

But,  without  seeking  further  to  analyze  and  account  for  such 
a  spirit,  it  is  quite  sufficient  if  I  have  described  it.  Perhaps, 
there  are  other  hearts  equally  froward  and  wayward  with  my 
own.  I  know  not  if  my  story  will  amend  —  perhaps  it  may 
not  even  instruct  or  inform  them  —  I  feel  that  no  story,  however 
truthful,  could  have  disarmed  the  humor  of  that  particular  mood 
of  mind  which  shows  itself  in  the  blindness  of  the  heart  under 
which  it  was  my  lot  to  labor.  I  did  not  want  knowledge  of  my 
own  perversity.  I  knew — I  felt  it  —  as  clearly  as  if  I  hid  seen 
it  written  in  characters  of  light,  on  the  walls  of  my  chamber. 
But,  until  it  had  exhausted  itself  and  passed  away  by  its  own 
processes,  no  effort  of  mine  could  have  overcome  or  banished  it. 
I  stalked  apart,  under  its  influence,  a  gloomy  savage  —  scornful 
and  sad — stern,  yet  suffering — denying  myself  equally,  in  the 
perverse  and  wanton  denial  to  which  I  condemned  all  otheis. 

Perhaps  something  of  this  temper  is  derived  from  the  yearn- 
ings of  the  mental  nature.  It  may  belong  somewhat  to  the 
natural  direction  of  a  mind  having  a  decided  tendency  to  imagi- 


BOY  PASSIONS.  21 

native  pursuits.  There  is  a  dim,  vague,  indefinite  struggle,  for 
ever  going  on  in  the  nature  of  such  a  person,  after  an  existence 
and  relations  very  foreign  to  the  world  in  which  it  lives ;  and 
equally  far  from,  and  hostile  to  that  condition  in  which  it  thrives. 
The  vague  discontent  of  such  a  mind  is  one  of  the  causes  of  its 
activity ;  and  how  far  it  may  be  stimulated  into  diseased  inten- 
sity by  injudicious  treatment,  is  a  question  of  large  importance 
for  the  consideration  of  philosophers.  The  imaginative  nature 
is  one  singularly  sensitive  in  its  conditions ;  quick,  jealous, 
watchful,  earnest,  stirring,  and  perpetually  breaking  down  the 
ordinary  barriers  of  the  actual,  in  its  struggles  to  ascertain  the 
extent  of  the  possible.  The  tyranny  which  drives  it  from  the 
ordinary  resources  and  enjoyments  of  the  young,  by  throwing 
it  more  completely  on  its  own,  impels  into  desperate  activity 
that  daring  of  the  imaginative  mood,  which,  at  no  time,  is  want- 
ing in  courage  and  audacity.  My  mind  was  one  singularly 
imaginative  in  its  structure ;  and  my  ardent  temperament  con- 
tributed largely  to  its  activity.  Solitude,  into  which  I  was 
forced  by  the  repulsive  and  unkind  treatment  of  my  relatives, 
was  also  favorable  to  the  exercise  of  this  influence ;  and  my 
heart  may  be  said  to  have  taken,  in  turn,  every  color  and  aspect 
which  informed  my  eyes.  It  was  a  blind  heart  for  this  very 
reason,  in  respect  to  all  those  things  for  which  it  should  have 
had  a  color  of  its  own.  Books  and  the  woods  —  the  voice  of 
waters  and  of  song  -7—  the  dim  mysteries  of  poetry,  and  the  whis- 
pers of  lonely  forest-walks,  which  beguiled  me  into  myself,  and 
mo.re  remotely  from  my  fellows,  were  all,  so  far  as  my  social 
relations  were  concerned,  evil  influences !  Influences  which 
were  only  in  part  overcome  by  the  communion  of  such  gentle 
beings  as  William  Edgerton  and  Julia  Clifford.- 

With  these  friends,  and  these  only,  I  grew  up.  As  my  years 
advanced,  my  intimacy  with  the  former  increased,  and  with  the 
latter  diminished.  But  this  diminution  of  intimacy  did  not  lessen 
the  kindness  of  her  feelings,  or  the  ordinary  devotedness  of 
mine.  She  was  still — when  the  perversity  of  heart  made  me 
not  blind — the  sweet  creature  to  whom  the  task  of  ministering 
was  a  pleasure  infinitely  beyond  any  other  which  I  knew.  But, 
as  she  grew  up  to  girlhood,  other  prospects  opened  upon  her 
eyes,  and  other  purposes  upon  those  of  her  parents.  At  twelve 


22  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

she  was  carried  by  maternal  vanity  into  company — sent  to 
the  dancing-school  —  provided  with  teachers  in  music  and  paint- 
ing, and  made  to  understand — so  far  as  the  actions,  looks,  and 
words  of  all  around  could  teach  —  that  she  was  the  cynosure  of 
all  eyes,  to  whom  the  whole  world  was  bound  in  deference. 

Fortunately,  in  the  case  of  Julia,  the  usual  effects  of  mater- 
nal folly  and  indiscretion  did  not  ensue.  Nature  interposed  to 
protect  her,  and  saved  her  in  spite  of  them  all.  She  was  still 
the  meek,  modest  child,  solicitous  of  the  happiness  of  all  around 
her — unobtrusive,  unassuming — kind  to  her  inferiors,  respect- 
ful to  superiors,  and  courteous  to,  and  considerate  of  all  other 
persons.  Her  advancing  years,  which  rendered  these  new  ac- 
quisitions and  accomplishments  desirable,  if  not  necessary,  at 
the  same  time  prompted  her  foolish  mother  to  another  step 
which  betrayed  the  humiliating  regard  which  she  entertained 
for  me.  When  I  was  seventeen,  Julia  was  twelve,  and  when 
neither  she  nor  myself  had  a  solitary  thought  of  love,  the  over- 
considerate  mother  began  to  think,  on  this  subject,  for  us  both. 
The  result  of  her  cogitations  determined  her  that  it  was  no 
longer  fitting  that  Julia  should  be  my  companion.  Our  rambles 
in  the  woods  together  were  forbidden ;  and  Julia  was  gravely 
informed  that  I  was  a  poor  youth,  though  her  cousin — an  orphan 
whom  her  father's  charity  supported,  and  whom  the  public 
charity  schooled.  The  poor  child  artlessly  told  me  all  this,  in 
a  vain  effort  to  procure  from  me  an  explanation  of  the  mystery 
(which  her  mother  had  either  failed  or  negfected  to  explain)  by 
which  such  circumstances  were  made  to  account  for  the  new 
commands  which  had  been  given  her.  Well  might  she,  in  her 
simplicity  of  heart,  wonder  why  it  was,  that  because  I  was  poor, 
she  should  be  familiar  with  me  no  longer. 

The  circumstance  opened  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  Julia  was 
a  tall  girl,  growing  fast,  already  in  her  teens,  and  likely,  under 
the  rapidly-maturing  influence  of  our  summer  sun,  to  be  soon  a 
woman.  But  just  then — just  when  she  first  tasked  me  to  solve 
the  mystery  of  her  mother's  strange  requisitions,  I  did  not  think 
of  this.  I  was  too  much  filled  with  indignation — t/ie  mortified 
self-esteem  was  too  actively  working  in  my  bosom  to  suffer  me 
to  think  of  anything  but  the  indignity  with  which  I  was  treated, 
A  brief  portion  of  the  dialogue  betweon  the  child  and  my 


BOY  PASSIONS.  23 

self,  will  give  some   glimpses  of  the  blind  heart  by  whi  ;h 
I  was  afflicted. 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  understand  it,  Julia.  You  do  not  know, 
then,  that  you  are  the  daughter  of  a  rich  merchant — the  only 
daughter — that  you  have  servants  to  wait  on  you,  and  a  car 
riage  at  command  —  that  you  can  wear  fine  silks,  and  have  all 
things  that  money  can  buy,  and  a  rich  man's  daughter  desire. 
You  don't  know  these  things,  Julia,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  Edward,  I  hear  you  say  so  now,  and  I  hear  mamma 
often  say  the  same  things ;  but  still  I  don't  see — " 

"  You  don't  see  why  that  should  make  a  difference  between 
yourself  and  your  poor  cousin,  eh  ?  Well,  but  it  does ;  and 
though  you  don't  see  it  now,  yet  it  will  not  be  very  long  before 
you  will  see,  and  understand  it,  and  act  upon  it,  too,  as  promptly 
as  the  wisest  among  them.  Don't  you  know  that  I  am  the 
object  of  your  father's  charity  —  that  his  bounty  feeds  me — and 
that  it  would  not  be  seemly  that  the  world  should  behold  me 
on  a  familiar  footing  of  equality  or  intimacy  with  the  daughter 
of  my  benefactor — my  patron  —  without  whom  I  should  prob 
ably  starve,  or  be  a  common  beggar  upon  the  highway  ?" 

"  But  father  would  not  suffer  that,  Edward." 

"  Oh,  no  !  no  ! — he  would  not  suffer  it,  Julia,  simply  because 
his  own  pride  and  name  would  feel  the  shame  and  disgrace  of 
such  a  thing.  But  though  he  would  keep  me  from  beggary  and 
the  highway,  Julia,  neither  he  nor  your  mother  would  spend  a 
sixpence  or  make  an  effort  to  save  my  feelings  from  pain  and 
misery.  They  protect  me  from  the  scorn  of  others,  but  they  use 
me  for  their  own." 

The  girl  hung  her  head  in  silence. 

"And  you,  too,"  I  added — "the  time  will  come  when  you, 
too,  Julia,  will  shrink  as  promptly  as  themselves  from  being 
seen  with  your  poor  relation.  You — " 

"No!  no!  Edward — how  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing?" 
she  replied  with  girlish  chiding. 

"  Think  it !  —  I  know  it !  The  time  will  soon  be  here.  But 
—  obey  your  mother,  Julia.  Go  1  leave  me  now.  Begin  at 
once  the  lesson  which,  before  many  days,  you  will  find  it  very 
easy  to  learn." 

This  was  all  very  manly,  so  I  fancied  at  the  time ;  and  theu 


24  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

blind  with  the  perverse  heart  which  boiled  within  me,  I  felt  not 
the  wantonness  of  my  mood,  and  heeded  not  the  bitter  pain 
which  I  occasioned  to  her  gentle  bosom.  Her  little  hand 
grasped  mine,  her  warm  tears  fell  upon  it ;  but  I  flung  away 
from  her  grasp,  and  left  her  to  those  childjsh  meditations  which 
I  had  made  sufficiently  mournful. 

Subsequent  reflection,  while  it  showed  me  the  brutality  of 
iny  conduct  to  Julia,  opened  my  eyes  to  the  true  meaning  of 
her  mother's  interdiction ;  and  increased  the  pang  of  those  bit- 
ter feelings,  which  my  conscious  dependence  had  awakened  in 
my  breast.  It  was  necessary  that  this  dependence  should  be 
lessened;  that,  as  I  was  now  approaching  manhood,  I  should 
cast  about  for  the  future,  and  adopt  wisely  and  at  once  the 
means  of  my  support  hereafter.  It  was  necessary  that  I  should 
begin  the  business  of  life.  On  this  head  I  had  already  reflected 
somewhat,  and  my  thoughts  had  taken  their  direction  from  more 
than  one  conference  which  I  had  had  with  William  Edgerton. 
His  father  was  an  eminent  lawyer,  and  the  law  had  been  adopted 
for  his  profession  also.  I  determined  to  make  it  mine ;  and  to 
speak  on  this  subject  to  rr.y  uncle.  This  I  did.  I  chose  an 
afternoon,  the  very  week  in  which  my  conversation  had  taken 
place  with  Julia,  and,  while  the  dinner  things  were  undergoing 
removal,  with  some  formality  requested  a  private  interview 
with  him.  He  looked  round  at  me  with  a  raised  brow  of  in- 
quiry— nodded  his  head — and  shortly  after  rose  from  the  table. 
My  aunt  stared  with  an  air  of  supercilious  wonder ;  while  poor 
Julia,  timid  and  trembling,  barely  ventured  to  give  me  a  single 
look,  which  said — and  that  was  enough  for  me  —  "I  wish  I 
dared  say  more." 

My  conference  with  my  uncle  was  not  of  long  duration.  I 
told  him  it  was  my  purpose — my  desire — to  begin  as  soon  as 
possible  to  do  something  for  myself.  His  answer  signified  that 
such  was  his  opinion  also.  So  far  we  were  agreed ;  but  when  I 
told  him  that  it  was  my  wish  to  study  the  law,  he  answered 
with  sufficient,  and  as  I  thought,  scornful  abruptness  :  — 

"  The  law,  indeed !  What  puts  the  law  into  your  head  1 
What  preparations  have  you  made  to  study  the  law  ?  You 
know  nothing  of  languages  which  every  lawyer  should  know— 
Latin—" 


A  PEOFESSION   CHOSEN.  25 

I  interrupted  him  to  say  that  I  had  some  slight  knowledge 
of  Latin — sufficient,  I  fancied,  for  all  legal  purposes. 

"  Ah  !  indeed !  where  did  you  get  it  ?" 

"  A  friend  lent  me  a  grammar  and  dictionary,  and  I  studied 
myself." 

"  Oh,  you  are  ambitious ;  but  you  deceive  yourself.  You  were 
never  made  for  a  lawyer.  Besides,  how  are  you  to  live  while 
prosecuting  your  studies  1  No,  no!  I  have  been  thinking  of  some- 
thing for  you,  Edward — and,  just  now,  it  happens  fortunately 
that  old  Squire  Farmer,  the  bricklayer,  wants  some  apprentices — " 

I  could  scarcely  listen  thus  far. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  but  I  have  no  disposition  to  be  a  brick- 
layer." 

"  You  must  do  something  for  yourself.  You  can  not  expect  to 
eat  the  bread  of  idleness.  I  have  done,  and  will  do  for  you 
what  I  can  —  whatever  is  necessary; — but  I  have  my  own 
family  to  provide  for.  I  can  not  rob  my  own  child " 

"  Nor  do  I  expect  it,  Mr.  Clifford,"  I  replied  hastily,  and  with 
some  indignation.  "  It  is  my  wish,  sir,  to  draw  as  little  as  pos- 
sible from  your  income  and  resources.  I  would  not  rob  Julia 
Clifford  of  a  single  dollar.  Nay,  sir,  I  trust  before  many  years 
to  be  able  to  refund  you  every  copper  which  has  been  spent 
upon  me  from  the  moment  I  entered  your  household." 

He  said  hastily  :  — 

"  I  wish  nothing  of  that,  Edward ; — but  the  law  is  a  study  of 
years,  and  is  expensive  and  unpromising  in  every  respect.  Your 
clothes  already  call  for  a  considerable,  sum,  and  such  a  profes- 
sion requires,  more  than  almost  any  other,  that  a  student  should 
be  well  dressed." 

"  I  promise  you,  sir,  that  my  dress  shall  be  such  as  shall  not 
trespass  upon  your  income.  I  shall  be  governed  by  as  much 
economy " 

He  interrupted  me  to  say,  that 

"  His  duty  required  that  his  brother's  son  should  be  dressed 
as  well  as  his  associates." 

I  replied,  with  tolerable  composure :  — 

"  I  do  not  think,  sir,  that  bricklaying  will  admit  of  very  gen- 
teel clothing,  nor  do  I  think  that  the  vocation  will  suit  me.  I 

have  flattered  myself,  sir,  that  my  talents " 

2 


26  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

"  Oh,  you  have  talents,  then,  have  you  1  Well,  it  is  fortunate 
that  the  discovery  has  been  made  in  season." 

I  bore  with  this,  though  my  cheek  was  burning,  and  said  — 
with  an  effort  to  preserve  my  voice  and  temper,  in  which,  though 
the  difficulty  was  great,  I  was  tolerably  successful  — 

"  You  have  misunderstood  me  in  some  things,  Mr.  Clifford ; 
and  I  will  try  now  to  explain  myself  clearly  in  others.  Having 
resolved,  sir,  that  the  law  shall  be  my  profession " 

"  Ha  !  resolved,  say  you  ?** 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  go  on  —  go  onP 

"  Having  resolved  to  pursue  the  study  of  Liw,  and  seeing  that 
I  am  burdensome  and  expensive  to  you — believing,  too,  that 
I  can  relieve  you  of  the  burden — I  have  simply  requested  per- 
mission of  you  to  make  the  attempt." 

"  Why,  how  do  you  propose  to  do  so  ? — how  can  you  support 
yourself — that  is  relieve  me  of  the  burden  of  your  expenses  — 
and  study  the  law  at  the  same  time  ?" 

"  Such  things  have  been  done,  sir ;  and  can  be  done  again.  I 
flatter  myself  I  can  do  it.  Industry  will  enable  me  to  do  so.  I 
propose  to  apply  for  a  clerkship  in  a  mercantile  establishment 
which  I  know  stands  in  need  of  assistance,  and  while  there  will 
pursue  my  studies  in  such  intervals  of  leisure  as  the  business  will 
afford  me." 

"  You  seem  to  have  the  matter  ready  cut  and  dry.  Why  do 
you  come  to  me,  then  ?  Remember,  I  can  make  no  advances." 

"  I  need  none,  sir.  My  simple  object  with  you,  sir,  was  to 
declare  my  intention,  and  to  request  that  I  may  be  permitted 
to  refer  to  you  the  merchants  to  whom  I  mean  to  apply,  for  a 
knowledge  of  my  character  and  attainments." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  you  may — for  the  character  ;  — but  as  to  the 
attainments" — with  a  sneering  smile — "  of  them  I  ca'i  say 
nothing,  and,  perhaps,  the  less  said  the  better.  I've  no  doubt 
you'll  do  well  enough  with  the  merchants.  It  does  not  need 
much  genius  or  attainment  for  such  situations.  But,  if  you'll 
take  my  counsel,  you'll  go  to  the  bricklayer.  We  want  brick- 
layers sadly.  To  be  a  tolerable  lawyer,  parts  are  necessary  ; 
and  God  knows  the  country  is  over-stocked  with  hosts  of 
lawyers  already,  whose  only  parts  lie  in  their  impudence. 


A  PROFESSION  CHOSEN.  £7 

Better  think   a  little   while   longer.      Speak  to   old   Famer 
yourself." 

I  smiled  bitterly — thanked  him  for  his  counsel,  which  was 
only  a  studied  form  of  insult,  and  turned  away  from  him  without 
further  speech,  and  with  a  proud  swelling  of  indignation  at  my 
heart.  Thus  our  conference  ended.  A  week  after,  I  was  en- 
econced  behind  the  counter  of  a  wholesale  dealer,  and  my  hands 
at  night  were  already  busy  in  turning  over  the  heavy  folios  of 
Ghitty  and  Blackstoue. 


28  CONFESSION,   OR  THE    rfhiir*   HEART* 


CHAPTER  II 

ADMITTED   AMONG   THE   LAWYER. 

BEHOLD  me,  then,  merchandising  by  day,  and  conning  "by  night 
the  intricate  mysteries  of  law.  Books  for  the  latter  purpose  were 
furnished  by  my  old  friend,  William  Edgerton,  from  his  father's 
library.  He  himself  was  a  student,  beginning  about  the  same 
time  with  myself;  though  with  the  superior  privilege  of  devoting 
himself  exclusively  to  this  study.  But  if  he  had  more  time,  I 
was  more  indefatigable.  My  pnde  was  roused,  and  emulation 
soon  enabled  me  to  supply  the  *.\  ant  of  leisure.  My  nights  were 
surrendered,  almost  wholly,  to  my  new  pursuit.  I  toiled  with 
all  the  earnestness  which  distinguished  my  temperament,  stimu- 
lated to  a  yet  higher  degree  by  those  feelings  of  pride  and  pique, 
which  were  resolved  to  convince  my  skeptical  uncle  that  I  was 
not  entirely  without  those  talents,  the  assertion  of  which  had  so 
promptly  provoked  his  sneer.  Besides,  I  had  already  learned 
that  no  such  scheme  as  mine  could  be  successfully  prosecuted, 
unless  by  a  stern  resolution  ;  and  this  implied  the  constant  pres- 
ence of  a  close,  undeviating  method  in  my  studies.  I  tasked 
myself  accordingly  to  read  —  understandingly,  if  possible — so 
many  pages  every  night,  making  my  notes,  queries,  doubts,  &c., 
en  passant.  In  order  to  do  this,  I  prescribed  to  myself  a  rule, 
to  pass  directly  from  the  toils  of  the  day  and  the  store  to 
my  chamber,  suffering  no  stoppage  by  the  way,  and  studiously 
denying  myself  the  dangerous  fascinations  of  that  society  which 
was  everywhere  at  command,  in  the  persons  of  young  men  about 
my  own  age  and  condition.  The  intensity  of  my  character,  and 
the  suspiciousness  which  it  induced,  helped  me  in  this  determi- 
nation. Perhaps,  there  is  no  greater  danger  to  a  young  man's 
habits  of  study  and  business,  than  a  chat  at  the  street  corner, 
with  a  merry  and  thoughtless  group,  A  single  half  hour  con 


ADMITTED   AMONG  THE  LAWYERS.  29 

sumed  in  this  manner,  is  almost  always  fatal  to  the  remaining 
hours  of  the  day.  It  breaks  into  the  circle,  and  impairs  the 
method  without  which  the  passage  of  the  sun  becomes  a  very 
weary  and  always  an  unprofitable  progress.  If  you  would  be  a 
student  or  anything,  you  must  plunge  headlong  into  it  at  the  be- 
ginning—  bury  yourself  in  your  business,  and  work  your  way 
out  of  your  toils,  by  sheer,  dogged  industry. 

My  labors  were  so  far  successful  that  I  could  prosecute  my 
studies  with  independence.  I  had  left  the  dwelling  of  my  uncle 
the  moment  I  took  employment  in  the  mercantile  house.  My 
salary,  though  small,  was  ample ;  with  my  habits,  it  was  par- 
ticularly so.  I  had  few  of  those  vices  in  which  young  men  are 
apt  to  indulge,  and  which,  when  they  become  habits,  cease  un- 
happily to  be  regarded  as  vices.  I  used  tobacco  in  no  shape, 
and  no  ardent  spirits.  I  needed  no  stimulants,  and,  by  the  way, 
true  industry  never  does.  It  is  only  indolence  that  needs  drink  ; 
and  indolence  does  need  it ;  and  the  sooner  drunkenness  kills 
indolence  by  the  use  of  drink,  the  better  for  society.  The  only 
objection  to  liquors  as  an  agent  for  ridding  the  community  of  a 
nuisance,  is,  that  it  is  rather  too  slow,  and  too  offensive  in  its 
detailed  operations ;  arsenic  would  be  far  less  offensive,  more 
summary,  and  is  far  more  certain.  You  would  seek  vainly  to 
cure  drunkenness,  unless  you  first  cure  the  idleness  which  is  its 
root  and  strength,  and,  while  they  last,  its  permanent  support. 
But  my  object  is  not  homily. 

If  I  was  free  from  vices  such  as  these,  however,  I  had  vices 
of  my  own,  which  were  only  less  odious  as  they  were  less 
obvious.  That  vexing,  self-tormenting  spirit  of  which  I  have 
spoken  as  the  evil  genius  that  dogged  my  footsteps — that  moral 
perverseness  which  I  have  described  as  the  "blind  heart"  — 
still  afflicted  me,  though  in  a  far  less  degree  now  than  when  I 
was  the  inmate  of  my  uncle's  dwelling,  and  exposed  to  all  the 
caprices  of  himself,  his  wife  and  servants.  I  kept  on  good  terms 
with  my  employers,  for  the  very  natural  reason  that  they  saw 
me  attend  to  my  business  and  theirs,  with  a  hearty  cheerfulness 
that  went  to  work  promptly  in  whatever  was  to  be  done,  and 
executed  its  tasks  with  steady  fortitude,  neatness,  and  rapidity. 
But,  even  with  them,  I  had  my  sulks — my  humors — my  stub- 
born fits  of  sullenness,  that  seemed  anxious  to  provoke  opposi- 


£0  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

tion,  and  awaken  wrath.  These,  however,  they  considerately 
forgave  in  consideration  of  my  real  usefulness  :  and  as  they  per- 
ceived that  whatever  might  have  heen  the  unpleasantness  occa- 
sioned by  these  specimens  of  spleen,  they  were  never  suffered 
to  interfere  with  or  retard  the  operations  of  business.  "  It's  an 
ugly  way  he's  got,"  was,  probably,  the  utmost  extent  of  what 
either  of  the  partners  said,  and  of  what  is  commonly  said  on 
such  occasions  by  most  persons,  who  do  not  care  to  trouble 
themselves  with  a  too  close  inquiry. 

Well,  at  twenty-one,  William  Edgerton  and  myself  were  ad- 
mitted to  the  practice  of  the  law,  and  that  too  with  considerable 
credit  to  ourselves.  I  had  long  since  been  carried  by  my  friend 
into  his  family  circle ;  and  Mr.  Edgerton,  his  father,  had  been 
pleased  to  distinguish  me  with  sundry  attentions,  which  were 
only  grateful  to  me  in  consequence  of  the  unusual  deference 
with  which  his  manner  evinced  his  regard.  His  gentle  inquiries 
and  persuasive  suggestions  beguiled  me  into  more  freedom  of 
speech  than  I  had  ever  before  been  accustomed  to ;  and  his 
judicious  management  of  my  troubled  spirit,  for  a  time,  stifled 
its  contradictions,  and  suppressed  its  habitual  tendencies.  But 
it  was  with  some  jealousy,  and  an  erectness  of  manner  which 
was  surely  ungracious,  though,  perhaps,  not  offensive,  that  I 
endured  and  replied  to  his  inquiries  into  my  personal  condition, 
my  resources,  and  the  nature  of  that  dependence  which  I  bore 
to  the  family  of  my  uncle.  When  he  learned — which  he  did 
not  from  me — in  what  manner  I  had  pursued  my  studies  —  after 
what  toils  of  the  day,  and  at  what  late  hours  of  the  night  — 
when  he  found  from  a  close  private  examination,  which  he  had 
given  me,  before  my  admission,  that  my  knowledge  of  the  law 
was  quite  as  good  as  the  greater  number  of  those  who  apply 
for  admission — he  was  pleased  to  express  his  astonishment  at 
my  perseverance,  and  delight  at  my  success.  When,  too,  in 
addition  to  this,  he  discovered,  upon  a  minute  inquiry  from  my 
employers  and  others,  that  I  was  abstemious,  and  indulged  in 
no  excesses  of  any  kind,  his  interest  in  me  increased,  as  I 
thought,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  nothing  of  the  sJrt,  be- 
yond all  reasonable  measure — and  I  soon  had  occasion  to  per- 
ceive that  it  was  no  idle  curiosity  that  prompted  his  considera- 
tion and  inquiry. 


ADMITTED   AMONG  THE  LAWYERS.  31 

Without  my  knowledge,  hs  paid  a  visit  to  my  uncle.  Thil 
gentleman,  I  may  be  permitted  here  to  say,  had  been  quite  as 
much  surprised  as  anybody  else,  at  my  determined  prosecution 
of  my  studies  in  spite  of  the  difficulties  by  which  I  was  sur- 
rounded. That  I  was  pursuing  them,  while  in  the  mercantile 
establishment  to  which  I  had  gone,  he  did  not  believe ;  and 
very  frequently  when  I  was  at  his  house — for  I  visited  the 
family,  and  sometimes,  though  unfrequently,  dined  with  them 
en  a  sabbath — he  jeered  me  on  my  progress  —  the  "wonderful 
progress,"  as  he  was  pleased  to  term  it  —  which  he  felt  sure  I 
was  making  with  my  Coke  and  Blackstone,  while  baling  blan- 
kets, or  bundling  up  plains  and  kerseys.  This  I  bore  patiently, 
sustained  as  I  was  by  the  proud,  indomitable  spirit  within  me, 
which  assured  me  of  the  ultimate  triumph  which  I  felt  positive 
would  ensue.  ~  snjoyed  his  surprise  —  a  surprise  that  looked 
something  like  consternation — when  the  very  day  of  my  ad- 
mission to  the  bar,  and  after  that  event,  I  encountered  him  in 
the  street,  and  in  answer  to  his  usual  sarcastic  inquiry :  — 

"  Well,  Edward,  how  does  the  law  come  on  ?  How  is  Sir 
William  Blackstone,  Sir  Edward  Coke,  and  the  rest  of  the  white 
heads  V 

I  simply  put  the  parchment  into  his  hands  which  declared 
my  formal  introduction  to  those  venerable  gentry. 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  So  you  really  are 
admitted — a  lawyer,  eh  ?" 

"You  see,  sir — and  that,  too,  without  any  Greek." 

"  Well,  and  what  good  is  it  to  do  you  1  To  have  a  profes- 
sion, Edward,  is  one  thing  ;  to  get  business,  another !" 

"Yes,  sir — but  I  take  it,  the  profession  must  be  had  first. 
One  step  is  gained.  That  much  is  sure.  The  other,  I  trust, 
will  follow  in  due  season." 

"  True,  but  I  still  think  that  the  bricklayer  would  make  the 
more  money." 

"  Were  money-making,  sir,  the  only  object  of  life,  perhaps, 
then,  that  would  be  the  most  desirable  business ;  but — " 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  —  the  talents,  the  talents  are  to  be  considered." 

And  after  the  utterance  of  this  sneer,  our  dialogue  as  may  be 
supposed,  did  not  much  longer  continue. 

T  did  not  know  of  the  contemplated  visit  of  Mr.  Edgertcn  to 


82  CONFESSION,   OR   THE   BLIND   HEART. 

my  worthy  uncle,  nor  of  its  purpose,  or  I  should,  most  assuredly/ 
have  put  my  veto  upon  the  measure  with  all  the  tenacity  of  a 
resentful  spirit ;  but  this  gentleman,  who  was  a  man  of  nice 
sensibility  as  well  as  strong  good  sense,  readily  comprehended 
a  portion  of  my  secret  history  from  what  was  known  to  him 
He  easily  conceived  that  rny  uncle  was  somewhat  of  a  niggard 
from  the  manner  in  which  I  had  employed  myself  during  my 
preparation  for  the  bar.  He  thought,  however,  that  my  uncle; 
though  unwilling  to  expend  money  in  the  prosecution  of  a  scheme 
which  he  did  not  approve  —  now  that  the  scheme  was  so  far 
successful  as  to  afford  every  promise  of  a  reasonable  harvest, 
could  not  do  less  than  come  forward  to  the  assistance  of  one 
who  had  shown  such  a  determined  disposition  to  assist  himself. 

He  was  mistaken.  He  little  knew  the  man.  His  interview 
with  my  uncle  was  a  short  one.  The  parties  were  already  ac- 
quainted, though  not  intimately.  They  knew  each  other  as 
persons  of  standing  in  the  same  community,  and  this  made  the 
opening  of  Mr.  Edgerton's  business  easy.  I  state  the  tenoi  of 
the  interview  as  it  came  to  my  knowledge  afterward. 

"  Mr.  Clifford,"  he  said,  "  you  have  a  nephew — a  young  gen- 
tleman, who  has  been  recently  admitted  to  the  bar — Mr.  Ed- 
ward Clifford." 

The  reply,  with  a  look  of  wonder  was  necessarily  affirmative. 

"  I  have  had  much  pleasure,"  continued  the  other,  "  in  know- 
ing him  for  some  time.  He  is  an  intimate  of  my  eldest  son, 
and  from  what  has  met  my  eyes,  sir,  I  should  say,  you  are  for 
tunate  in  having  a  nephew  of  so  much  promise." 

"  Why,  yes,  sir,  I  believe  he  is  a  clever  youth  enough,"  was 
the  costive  answer. 

"  He  is  more  than  that,  sir.  I  regard  him,  indeed,  as  &  most 
astonishing  young  man.  The  very  manner  in  which  he  has 
pursued  his  studies  while  engaged  in  the  harassing  labors  of  a 
large  wholesale  business  house  of  this  city  —  alone  establishes 
this  fact." 

The  cheeks  of  my  uncle  reddened.  The  last  sentence  of 
Mr.  Edgerton  was  unfortunate  for  his  object.  It  conveyed  a 
tacit  reproof,  which  the  niggardly  conscience  of  Mr.  Clifford 
readily  appropriated  and,  perhaps,  anticipated  He  dreaded 
lest  Mr.  Edgerton  knew  all. 


ADMITTED  AMONG  THE  LAWYERS.  33 

"  You  are  probablj  aware,  Mr.  Edgerton,"  he  replied  with 
equal  hesitancy  and  haste — "you  have  heard  that  Edward 
Clifford  is  an  orphan — that  he  has  nothing,  and  it  was  there- 
fore necessary  that  he  should  learn  to  employ  himself;  though 
it  was  against  my  wish,  sir,  that  he  went  into  a  mercantile 
house." 

There  was  something  suppressed  in  this — a  mean  evasion — 
for  he  could  not  easily  have  told  Mr.  Edgerton,  without  a  blush, 
that,  instead  of  the  mercantile  establishment,  he  would  have 
made  me  a  bricklayer's  hodman.  But  this,  it  seems,  Edgerton 
had  found  out  for  himself.  His  reply,  however,  was  calculated 
to  soothe  the  jealous  apprehensions  of  Mr.  Clifford.  He  had 
an  object  in  view,  which  he  thought  too  important  to  risk  for 
the  small  pleasure  of  a  passing  sarcasm. 

"  Perhaps,  it  has  happened  for  the  best,  Mr.  Clifford.  You 
were  right  in  requiring  the  young  man  to  do  for  himself.  Were 
I  worth  millions,  sir,  I  should  still  prefer  that  my  son  should 
learn  that  lesson — that  he  should  work  out  his  own  deliver- 
ance with  the  sweat  of  his  own  brow." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  sir,  perfectly,"  replied  the  other,  with 
increased  complacency.  "  A  boy  learns  to  value  his  money  as 
he  should,  only  when  he  has  earned  it  for  himself." 

"  Ah  !  it  is  not  for  this  object  simply,"  replied  Mr.  Edgerton, 
"that  I  would  have  him  acquire  habits  of  industry;  it  is  for 
the  moral  results  which  such  habits  produce — the  firmness, 
character,  consistency — the  strength  and  independence — tem- 
perance, justice — all  of  which  arise,  and  almost  only,  from 
obedience  to  this  law.  But  it  is  clear  that  one  can  not  do  every- 
thing by  himself,  and  this  young  man,  though  he  has  gone  on 
in  a  manner  that  might  shame  the  best  of  us,  is  still  not  so 
thoroughly  independent  as  he  fancies  himself.  It  will  be  some 
time  before  he  will  be  able  to  realize  anything  from  his  profes- 
sion, and  he  will  need  some  small  assistance  in  the  meantime." 

"I  can  not  help  him,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Clifford,  abruptly — "I 
have  not  the  means  to  spare.  My  own  family  need  everything 
that  I  can  give.  He  has  himself  only  to  blame.  He  chose  his 
profession  for  himself.  I  warned  him  against  it.  He  needn't 
send  to  me." 

"  Do  not  mistake  me,  Mr.  Clifford,"  said  Mr.  Edgerton,  calmly. 
2* 


34  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

"Your  nephew  knows  nothing  of  my  present  visit.  I  would 
be  loath  that  he  shouH  know.  It  was  the  singular  independence 
of  his  mind  that  led  me  to  the  conviction,  that  he  would  sooner 
die  than  ask  assistance  from  anybody,  that  persuaded  me  to 
suggest  to  you  in  what  manner  you  might  afford  him  an  almost 
necessary  help,  without  offending  his  sensibility." 

"  Humph  !"  exclaimed  the  other,  while  a  sneer  mantled  upon 
his  lips.  "  You  are  very  considerate,  Mr.  Edgerton ;  but  the 
same  sensibilities  might  prompt  him  to  reject  the  assistance 
when  tendered." 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Edgerton,  mildly  — "  I  think  I  could  man 
age  that." 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  I  can  not  second  your  wishes  in  any 
material  respect,"  was  the  answer  of  my  uncle ;  —  "  but  I  will 
see  Edward,  and  let  him  know  that  my  house  is  open  to  him  as 
it  was  from  the  time  he  was  four  years  old  ;  and  he  shall  have  a 
seat  at  my  table  until  he  can  establish  himself  more  to  his  satis- 
faction ;  but  money,  sir,  in  truth,  I  have  not  a  cent  to  spare.  My 
own  necessities " 

"  Enough,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Edgerton,  mildly ;  "  I  take  it  for 
granted,  Mr.  Clifford,  that  if  you  could  contribute  to  the  success 
of  your  brother's  son,  you  certainly  would  neither  refuse  nor 
refrain  to  do  so." 

"Oh,  surely — certainly  not,"  replied  the  other,  hastily. 
"Anything  that  I  could  do — anything  in  reason,  sir,  I  should 
be  very  happy  to  do,  but " 

And  then  followed  the  usual  rigmarole  about  "  his  own  family," 
and  "  hard  times,"  and  "  diminished  resources,"  and  all  those 
stereotype  commonplaces  which  are  for  ever  on  the  lips  of  stere- 
otype insincere  people.  Mr.  Clifford  did  not  perceive  the  dry 
and  somewhat  scornful  inuendo,  which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  Mr. 
Edgerton's  seemingly  innocent  assumption  ;  and  the  latter  took 
his  leave,  vexed  with  himself  at  having  made  the  unsuccessful 
application  —  but  still  more  angry  with  the  meanness  of  character 
which  he  had  encountered  in  my  uncle. 


SHE  SOOTHED  THE  MOCK  OF  OTHERS, 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  She  still  soothed 

The  mock  of  others." 

IT  is  not  improbable  that,  after  a  few  hours  given  to  calm  re- 
flection, my  uncle  perceived  how  obnoxious  lie  might  be  mads  to 
public  censure  for  his  narrow  treatment  of  my  claims  ;  and  the 
next  day  he  sent  for  me  in  order  to  tender  me  the  freedom  of 
his  house— a  tender  which  he  had  made  the  day  before  to  Mr. 
Edgerton  in  my  behalf.  But  his  offer  had  been  already  antici- 
pated by  that  excellent  friend  that  very  day.  Coming  warm 
and  fresh  from  his  interview  with  my  uncle,  he  called  upon  me, 
and  in  a  very  plain,  direct,  business-like,  but  yet  kind  and 
considerate  manner,  informed  me  that  he  stood  very  much  in 
need  of  an  assistant  who  would  prepare  his  papers — did  me  the 
honor  to  say  that  he  fancied  I  would  suit  him  better  than 
anybody  else  he  knew,  and  offered  me  six  hundred  dollars  for 
my  labors  in  that  capacity  for  the  first  year  of  my  service. 
My  engagement  to  him,  he  said  at  the  same  time,  did  not  imply 
such  entire  employment  as  would  incapacitate  me  for  the  execu- 
tion of  any  business  which  might  be  intrusted  to  my  hands  indi- 
vidually. I  was  permitted  the  use  of  a  desk  in  his  office,  and 
was  also  permitted  to  hang  out  my  own  banner  from  his  window 
I  readily  persuaded  myself  that  I  could  be  of  service  to  Mr. 
Edgwton — such  service  as  would,  perhaps,  leave  my  obligation 
a  light  one  —  and  promptly  acceded  to  his  offer.  He  had  scarce- 
ly departed  when  a  servant  brought  a  note  from  Mr.  Clifford. 
Even  while  meditating  what  he  fancied  was  a  favor,  he  could  not 
forbear  the  usual  sneer.  The  following  was  his  communication : 

"  DEAR  EDWARD  :    If  you  can  spare  a  moment  from   your 
numerous  clients,  and  are  not  in  a  great  hurry  to  make  your  de- 
posites,  you  will  suffer  me  to  see  you  at  the  office  before  two  o'clock. 
"  Yours  affectionately,  "  J.  B.  CLIFFORD." 


36  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

"Very  affectionately!"!  exclaimed.     Tt  might  be   nothing 
more  than  a  pleasantry  which  he  intended  by  the  offensive  pas- 
sages in  his  note ;  but  the  whole  tenor  of  his  character  and  con 
duct  forbade  this  conviction. 

"  No  !  no  !"  I  muttered  to  myself,  as  the  doubt  suggested  itself 
to  my  mind ;  "  no  !  no  !  it  is  the  old  insolence — the  insolence  of 
pride,  of  conscious  wealth — of  power,  as  he  thinks,  to  crush  ! 
But  he  is  mistaken.  He  shall  find  defiance.  Let  him  but  repeat 
those  sarcasms  and  that  sneer  which  are  but  too  frequent  on  his 
lips  when  he  speaks  to  me,  and  I  will  answer  him,  for  the  first 
time,  by  a  narration  which  shall  sting  him  to  tho  very  soul,  if 
he  has  one!" 

This  resolution  was  scarcely  made  when  the  image  of  Julia 
Clifford — the  sweet  child — a  child  now  no  longer — the  sweet 
woman — interposed,  and  my  temper  was  subdued  of  its  resolve, 
though  its  bitterness  remained  unqualified. 

And  what  of  Julia  Clifford  ?  I  have  said  but  little  of  her  for 
some  time  past,  but  she  has  not  been  forgotten.  Far  from  it. 
She  was  still  sufficiently  the  attraction  that  drew  me  to  the  dwel- 
ling of  my  selfish  uncle.  In  the  three  years  that  I  had  been  at 
the  mercantile  establishment,  her  progress,  in  mind  and  person, 
had  been  equally  ravishing  and  rapid.  She  was  no  more  the 
child,  but  the  blooming  girl — the  delicate  blossom  swelling  to 
the  bud — the  bud  bursting  into  the  flower — but  the  bloom,  and 
the  beauty,  and  the  innocence — the  rich  tenderness,  and  the 
dewy  sweet,  still  remained  the  same  through  all  the  stages  of 
her  progress  from  the  infant  to  the  woman.  Wealth,  and  the 
arrogant  example  of  those  about  her,  had  failed  to  change  the  nat- 
urally true  and  pure  simplicity  of  her  character.  She  was  not  to 
be  beguiled  by  the  one,  nor  misguided  by  the  other,  from  the  ex- 
quisite heart  which  was  still  worthy  of  Eden.  When  I  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  at  twenty-one,  she  was  sixteen — the  age  in  our 
.southern  country  when  a  maiden  looks  her  loveliest.  But  I  had 
scarcely  felt  the  changes  in  the  last  three  years  which  had  been 
going  on  in  her.  I  beheld  beauties  added  to  beauties,  charms 
to  charms  ;  and  she  seemed  every  day  to  be  the  possessor  of  fresh 
graces  newly  dropped  from  heaven ;  but  there  was  no  change. 
Increased  perfection  does  not  imply  change,  nor  does  it  suffer  it. 

It  was  my  custom,  as  the  condescending  wish  of  my  uncle 


SHE  SOOTHED  THE  MOCK  OP  OTHEES.        37 

expressed,  that  I  should  take  my  Sunday  dinner  with  his  fami- 
ly. I  complied  with  this  request,  and  it  was  no  hard  matter  to 
do  so.  But  it  was  a  sense  of  delight,  not  of  duty,  that  made  me 
comply ;  and,  but  for  Julia,  I  feel  certain  that  I  should  never 
have  darkened  the  doors,  which  opened  to  admit  me  only  through 
a  sense  of  duty.  But  the  attraction — scarcely  known  to  my 
self —  drew  me  with  singular  punctuality ;  and  I  associated  the 
privilege  which  had  been  accorded  me  with  another.  I  escorted 
the  ladies  to  church ;  sometimes,  too,  when  the  business  of  my 
employers  permitted,  I  spent  an  evening  during  the  week  with 
the  family ;  and  beholding  Julia  I  was  not  over-anxious  to  per- 
ceive the  indifference  with  which  I  was  treated  by  all  others. 

But  let  me  retrace  my  steps.  I  subdued  my  choler  so  far  as 
to  go,  with  a  tolerable  appearance  of  calmness  if  not  humility,  to 
the  interview  which  my  uncle  had  been  pleased  to  solicit.  I 
need  not  repeat  in  detail  what  passed  between  us.  It  amounted 
simply  to  a  supercilious  offer,  on  his  part,  of  lodging  and  board, 
until  I  should  be  sufficiently  independent  to  open  the  oyster  for 
myself.  I  thanked  him  with  respect  and  civility,  but,  to  his  sur- 
prise, declined  to  accept  his  offer. 

"  Why,  what   do  you  propose  to  do  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  Do  what  I  have  been  doing  for  the  three  past  years  ;  work 
for  myself,  and  pay  my  board  from  the  proceeds  of  my  own  la- 
bor." 

"  What,  you  go  back  to  the  merchants,  do  you  ?  You  are  wiser 
than  I  thought.  The  law  would  not  give  you  your  bread  here 
for  twenty  years  in  this  city." 

"You  are  mistaken,  uncle,"  I  said,  good  humoredly — "it  is 
from  the  law  that  I  propose  to  get  my  bread." 

"Indeed! — You  are  even  more  sanguine  than  I  thought 
you.  But,  pray,  upon  whai  do  you  base  your  expectations  ? — 
the  talents,  I  suppose." 

I  felt  the  rankling  of  this  well-known  and  offensive  sneer,  but 
replied  simply  to  the  point : — 

"  No,  sir,  upon  assurances  which  you  will  probably  think  far 
more  worthy  of  respect.  I  have  already  been  employed  by  Mr. 
Edgerton  as  an  attorney,  at  a  salary  of  six  hundred  dollars." 

"  Ah,  indeed !  Well,  you  are  a  fortunate  fellow,  I  must  say,  to 
get  such  a  helping  hand  at  the  outset.  But  you  may  want  some 


38  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

small  amount  to  begin  with — you  can  not  draw  upon  Mr.  Edger- 
ton  before  services  are  rendered,  and  if  fifty  or  a  hundred  dol 
lars,  Edward " 

"  I  thank  you,  sir; — so  far  from  wanting  money,  I  should  "bz 
almost  able  to  lend  some.  I  have  saved  some  two  hundred  fr*m 
my  mercantile  salary  " 

I  enjoyed  the  ghastly  grin  which  rose  to  his  features.  It  was 
evident  that  he  was  not  pleased  that  I  should  be  independent. 
lie  had  set  out  with  the  conviction,  when  my  father  died,  that 
my  support  and  education  would  devolve  upon  him,  and  though 
they  did  not,  yet  it  was  plain  enough  to  me  that  he  was  not  un- 
willing that  such  should  be  the  impression  of  the  community.  I 
had  disarmed  him  entirely  by  the  simplest  process,  and,  mortified 
at  being  disappointed,  he  was  disposed  to  hate  the  youth  who  had 
baffled  him.  It  was  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world  that  such 
should  be  the  feeling  of  any  man,  and  that,  too,  in  reference  to 
so  near  a  relation ;  but  the  case  is  nevertheless  true.  I  saw  it  in 
his  looks  that  moment  —  I  felt  it  in  his  accents.  I  knew  that 
such  was  the  real  feeling  in  his  soul.  There  are  motives  which 
grow  from  vanities,  piques,  rivalries,  and  the  miserable  ostenta- 
tions of  a  small  spirit,  which  act  more  terribly  upon  the  passions 
of  man,  than  even  the  desire  of  gain  or  the  love  of  woman.  The 
heart  of  Mr.  Clifford,  was,  after  its  particular  fashion,  a  blind 
heart,  like  my  own. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  you  are  so  well  off.  You  will  dine  with  us 
on  Sunday,  I  suppose  ?" 

My  affirmative  was  a  matter  of  course ;  and,  on  Sunday,  the 
evident  gratification  of  Julia  when  she  saw  me,  amply  atoned 
for  all  her  father's  asperities  and  injustice.  She  had  heard  of  my 
success — and  though  in  a  sneer  from  the  lips  of  her  father  it  was 
not  the  less  productive  of  an  evident  delight  to  her.  She  met 
me  with  the  expression  of  this  delight  upon  all  her  features. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  so  very  glad,  and  so  surprised,  too,  Cousin 
Edward,  at  your  success.  And  yet  you  kept  it  all  to  yourself. 
You  might  have  told  me,  at  least,  that  you  were  studying  law. 
Why  was  it  that  I  was  never  allowed  to  know  of  your 
intention?" 

"  Your  father  knew  it,  Julia." 

*  Yes,  so  lie  says  now.     He  says  you  told  him  something 


SHE  SOOTHED  THE  MOCK  OF  OTHERS.        39 

about  it  when  you  first  went  into  a  store ;  but  he  did  not  think 
you  in  earnest." 

"  Not  in  earnest !     He  little  knew  me,  Julia." 

"  But  your  telling  him,  Edward,  was  not  telling  me.  Why 
did  you  not  tell  me  V 

"You  might  not  have  kept  my  secret,  Julia.  You  know 
what  naughty  things  are  said  of  your  sex,  touching  your  inabil 
ity  to  keep  a  secret." 

"Naughty  things,  indeed — naughty  and  untrue!  I'm  sure, 
I  should  have  kept  your  secret,  if  you  desired  it.  But  why 
should  it  be  a  secret  ?" 

"Why,  indeed !"  I  muttered,  as  the  shadow  of  my  perverse 
ness  passed  deeply  over  my  heart.  "  Why,  unless  to  protect 
myself  from  the  sneers  which  would  stifle  my  ambition,  and  the 
sarcasm  which  would  have  stung  my  heart." 

"  But  you  have  no  fear  of  these  from  me,  Cousin  Edward," 
she  said  gently,  and  with  dewy  eyes,  while  her  fingers  slightly 
pressed  upon  my  wrist. 

"  I  know  not  that,  Cousin  Julia,  I  somehow  suspect  every- 
thing and  everybody  now.  I  feel  very  lonely  in  the  world — 
as  if  there  was  a  destiny  at  work  to  make  my  whole  life  one 
long  conflict,  which  I  must  carry  on  without  sympathy  or 
succor." 

"  Oh,  these  are  only  notions,  Edward." 

"Notions !"  I  exclaimed,  giving  her  a  bitter  smile  as  I  spoke, 
while  my  thoughts  reverted  to  the  three  years  of  unremitting 
and  almost  uncheered  labor  through  which  I  had  passed. 

"  Yes,  notions  only,  Cousin  Edward.  You  are  full  of  such 
notions.  You  every  now  and  then  start  up  with  a  new  one ; 
and  it  makes  you  gloomy  and  discontented — " 

"  I  make  no  complaints,  Julia." 

"  No,  that  is  the  worst  of  it.  You  make  no  complaints,  I 
think,  because  you  do  not  wish  to  be  cured  of  them.  You  pre- 
fer nursing  your  supposed  cause  of  grief,  with  a  sort  of  solitary 
pleasure  —  the  gratification  of  a  haughty  spirit,  that  is  too  proud 
to  seek  for  solace,  nnd  to  find  it." 

Julia  had  in  truth  touched  npor.  tho  true  nature  of  my  mis- 
anthropy—  of  that  si'.lf-vpxing  and  self-torturing  spirit  Tvhidb 
too  effectually  blinds  the  heart. 


iO  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

"  But  could  I  find  it,  Julia  ?"  I  asked,  looking  into  her  eyes 
with  an  expression  which  I  began  to  feel  was  something  very 
new  to  mine. 

"Perhaps — I  think — you  could,"  was  the  half-tremulous 
answer,  as  she  beheld  the  peculiar  expression  of  my  glance. 
The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Clifford,  was,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time, 
rather  a  relief  to  us  both. 

"  And  so  you  are  a  lawyer,  Edward  ?  Well,  who  would  have 
thought  of  it  ?  It  must  be  a  very  easy  thing  to  be  made  a 
lawyer." 

Julia  looked  at  me  with  eyes  that  reddened  with  vexation. 
I  felt  my  gorge  rising ;  but  when  I  reflected  upon  the  ignorance, 
and  the  unworthy  nature  of  the  speaker,  I  overcame  the  dispo- 
sition to  retort,  and  smilingly  replied  : — 

"  It's  not  such  hard  work  as  bricklaying,  certainly." 

"Ah,"  she  answered,  "if  it  were  only  half  so  profitable. 
But  Mr.  Clifford  says  that  a  lawyer  now  is  only  another  name 
for  a  beggar — a  sort  of  genteel  beggar.  The  town's  overrun 
with  them — half  of  them  live  upon  their  friends." 

"  I  trust  I  shall  not  add  to  the  number  of  this  class,  Mrs. 
Clifford." 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  know  you  never  will,  Cousin  Edward,"  exclaimed 
Julia,  with  a  flush  upon  her  cheeks  at  her  own  temerity. 

"  Really,  Julia,"  said  her  mother,  "  you  are  very  confident. 
How  do  you  know  anything  about  it  '?" 

The  sharp  glances  of  rebuke  which  accompanied  this  speech 
daunted  the  damsel  for  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  were  suddenly 
cast  in  confusion  upon  the  ground ;  but  she  raised  them  with 
boldness  a  moment  after,  as  she  replied : — 

"  We  have  every  assurance,  mother,  for  what  I  say,  in  the 
fact  that  Cousin  Edward  has  been  supporting  himself  at  another 
business,  while  actually  pursuing  the  study  of  law  for  these 
three  years ;  and  that  very  pride  about  which  father  spoke  to- 
day, is  another  assurance — " 

"  Bless  my  stars,  child,  you  have  grown  very  pert  on  a  sud- 
den, to  talk  about  guaranties  and  assurances?  just  as  if  you  was 
a  lawyer  yourself.  The  next  thing  we  hear,  I  suppose,  will  be 
that  instead  of  being  busy  over  the  '  Seven  Champions'  and  the 
last  fashions,  you,  too,  will  be  turning  over  the  leaves  of  big 


SHE  SOOTHED  THE  MOCK  OP  OTHERS.        41 

law-books,  and  carrying  on  such  studies  in  secret  to  surprise  a 
body,  as  if  there  was  any  merit  or  good  in  doing  such  things 
secretly." 

Julia  felt  that  she  had  only  made  bad  worse,  and  she  hung 
her  head  in  silence.  For  my  part,  though  I  suppressed  my 
choler,  the  pang  was  only  the  more  keenly  felt  for  the  effort  to 
hide  it.  In  my  secret  soul,  I  asked,  "  Will  the  day  never  come 
when  I,  too,  will  be  able  to  strike  and  sting?"  I  blushed  an 
instant  after,  at  the  small  and  mean  appetite  for  revenge  that 
such  an  inquiry  implied.  But  I  came  to  the  support  of  Julia. 

"  Let  me  say,  Mrs.  Clifford,  that  I  think — nay,  I  know — that 
Julia  is  right  in  her  conjecture.  The  guaranty  which  I«  have 
given  to  my  friends,  by  the  pride  and  industry  which  I  have 
shown,  should  be  sufficient  to  convince  them  what  my  conduct 
shall  be  hereafter.  I  know  that  I  shall  never  trespass  upon 
their  feelings  or  their  pockets.  They  shall  neither  blush  for 
nor  lose  by  their  relationship  with  Edward  Clifford." 

"  Well  said  !  well  spoken !  with  good  emphasis  and  proper 
action.  Forrest  himself  could  scarce  have  done  it  better!" 

Such  was  the  exclamation  of  Mr.  Clifford,  who  entered  the 
room  at  this  moment.  His  mock  applause  was  accompanied  by 
a  clamorous  clapping  of  his  hands.  I  felt  my  cheeks  burn,  and 
my  blood  boil.  The  truth  is,  I  was  not  free  from  the  conscious- 
ness that  I  had  suffered  some  of  the  grandiloquent  to  appear 
in  my  manner  while  speaking  the  sentence  which  had  provoked 
the  ridicule  of  my  uncle.  The  sarcasm  acquired  increase  of 
sting  in  consequence  of  its  being  partially  well-merited.  I  re- 
plied with  some  little  show  of  temper,  which  the  imploring 
glances  of  Julia  did  not  altogether  persuade  me  to  suppress. 
The  "  blind  heart"  was  growing  stronger  within  me,  from  the 
increasing  conviction  of  my  own  independence.  In  this  sort  of 
mimic  warfare  the  day  passed  off  as  usual.  I  attended  the 
family  to  church  in  the  afternoon,  took  tea,  and  spent  the  even- 
ing with  them — content  to  suffer  the  "stings  and  arrows"  — 
however  outrageous,  of  my  exemplary  and  Christian  aunt  and 
uncle,  if  permitted  to  enjoy  the  presence  and  occasional  smiles 
of  the  true  angel,  whose  influence  could  still  temper  my  feelings 
:nt  a  humane  and  patient  toleration  of  influences  which  they 
yet  burned  to  trample  under  foot. 


42  CONFESSION.  OB  THE  BLIND  HEABT. 


CHAPTER   V 

DEBUT. 

A  BRIEF  interval  now  passed  over,  after  my  connection  begun 
with  JJJr.  Edgerton,  in  which  time  the  Avorld  went  on  with  me 
more  smoothly,  perhaps,  than  ever.  My  patron  —  for  so  this 
gentleman  deserves  to  he  called — was  as  indulgent  as  I  could 
wish.  He  soon  discerned  the  weaknesses  in  my  character,  and 
with  the  judgment  of  an  old  practitioner,  he  knew  how  to  sub- 
due and  soften,  without  seeming  to  perceive  them.  I  need  not 
say  that  I  was  as  diligent  and. industrious,  and  not  less  studious, 
while  in  his  employ,  than  I  had  been  in  that  of  my  mercantile 
acquaintance.  The  entire  toils  of  the  desk  soon  fell  upon  my 
shoulders,  and  I  acquired  the  reputation  among  my  small  circle 
of  acquaintance,  of  being  a  very  good  attorney  for  a  young  be- 
ginner. It  is,  true,  I  was  greatly  helped  by  the  continued  peru- 
sal of  an  admirable  collection  of  old  precedents,  which  a  long 
period  of  extensive  practice  had  accumulated  in  the  collection 
of  my  friend.  But  to  be  an  attorney,  simply,  was  not  the  bound 
of  my  ambition.  I  fancied  that  the  forum  was,  before  all  others, 
my  true  field  of  exertion.  The  ardency  of  my  temper,  the 
fluency  of  my  speech,  the  promptness  of  my  thought,  and  the 
warmth  of  my  imagination,  all  conspired  in  impressing  on  ir.e 
the  belief  that  I  was  particularly  fitted  for  the  arena  of  public 
disputation.  This,  I  may  add,  was  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Edger- 
ton also ;  and  I  soon  sought  an  occasion  for  the  display  of.  iny 
powers. 

It  was  the  custom  at  our  bar — and  a  custom  full  of  danger 
—for  young  beginners  to  take  their  cases  from  the  criminal 
docket.  Their  "  'prentice  han',"  was  usually  exercised  on  some 
wretch  from  the  stews,  just  as  the  young  surgeon  is  permittee 
to  hack  the  carcass  of  a  tenant  of  the  "  Paupers'  Field,"  tkt, 


D2SUT. 

better  to  prepare  him  for  practice  on  living  and  more  worthy 
victims.  Was  there  a  rascal  so  notoriously  given  over  to  the 
gallows  that  no  hope  could  possibly  be  entertained  of  his  extri- 
cation from  the  toils  of  the  evidence,  and  the  deliberations  of  a 
jury,  he  was  considered  fair  game  for  the  young  lawyers,  "who, 
on  such  cases,  gathered  about  him  with  all  the  ghostly  and  keen 
propensities  of  vultures  about  the  body  of  the  horse  cast  out  upon 
the  commons. 

The  custom  was  evil,  and  is  now,  I  believe,  abandoned.  It 
led  to  much  irreverence  among  thoughtless  young  men — to  an 
equal  disregard  of  that  solemnity  which  should  naturally  attach 
to  the  court  of  justice,  and  to  the  life  of  the  prisoner  arraigned 
before  it.  A  thoughtless  levity  too  frequently  filled  the  mind 
of  the  young  lawyer  and  his  hearers,  when  it  was  known  that 
the  poor  wretch  on  trial  was  simply  regarded  as  an  agent, 
through  whose  miserable  necessity,  the  beginner  was  to  try 
his  strength  and  show  his  skill  in  the  art  of  speech-making.  It 
was  my  fortune,  acting  rather  in  compliance  with  the  custom 
than  my  own  preference,  to  select  one  of  these  victims  and  oc- 
casions for  my  debut.  I  could  have  done  otherwise.  Mr.  Ed- 
gerton  freely  tendered  to  me  any  one  of  several  cases  of  his 
own,  on  the  civil  docket,  in  which  to  make  my  appearance ; 
but  I  was  unwilling  to  try  my  hand  upon  a  case  in  which  the 
penalty  of  ill  success  might  be  a  serious  loss  to  my  friend's 
client,  and  might  operate  to  the  injury  of  his  business ;  and, 
another  reason  for  my  preference  was  to  be  found — though  not 
expressed  by  me — in  the  secret  belief  .which  I  entertained  that 
I  was  peculiarly  gifted  with  the  art  of  appealing  to  the  pas- 
eions,  and  the  sensibilities  of  my  audience. 

Having  made  my  determination,  I  proceeded  to  prepare  my- 
self by  a  due  consideration  of  the  case  at  large ;  the  history 
of  the  transaction,  which  involved  the  life  of  my  client — (the 
allegation  was  for  murder)  —  and  of  the  testimony  of  the  wit- 
nesses so  far  as  it  had  been  suggested  in  the  exparte  examina- 
tion before  the  grand  jury.  I  reviewed  the  several  leading 
principles  on  the  subject  of  the  crime ;  its  character,  the  sort 
of  evidence  essential  to  conviction,  and  certainly,  to  do  myself 
all  justice,  as  effectually  prepared  myself  for  the  duties  of  the 
trial  as  probably  any  y<"ung  man  of  the  time  and  community 


41  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

was  likely  to  have  done.  The  case,  I  need  not  add,  was  hope- 
lessly against  me ;  the  testimony  conclusive ;  and  I  had  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  weigh  its  character  with  keen  examination, 
pick  out  and  expose  its  defects  and  inconsistencies,  and  suggest 
as  plausible  a  presumption  in  favor  of  the  accused,  as  could  be 
reasonably  made  out  from  the  possibilities  and  doubts  by  which 
all  human  occurrences  are  necessarily  attended.  Something, 
too,  might  be  done  by  judicious  appeals  to  the  principle  of 
mercy,  assuming  for  the  jury  a  discretion  on  this  subject  which, 
by  the  way,  they  have  no  right  to  exercise. 

I  was  joined  in  the  case  by  my  friend,  young  Edgerton.  So 
far  our  boyish  fortunes  had  run  together,  and  he  was  not  un- 
willing, though  against  his  father's  counsel,  to  take  the  same 
occasion  with  me  for  entering  the  world  in  company.  The 
term  began ;  the  case  was  one  of  the  last  on  the  criminal 
docket,  and  the  five  days  which  preceded  that  assigned  for  the 
trial,  were  days,  I  am  constrained  to  confess,  of  a  thrilling  and 
terrible  agitation  to ,  my  mind.  I  can  scarcely  now  recall  the 
feelings  of  that  week  without  undergoing  a  partial  return  of 
the  same  painful  sensations.  My  soul  was  striving  as  with  it- 
self, and  seeking  an  outlet  for  escape.  I  panted,  as  if  for 
breath  —  my  tongue  was  parched  —  my  lips  clammy  —  my 
voice,  in  the  language  of  the  poet,  clove  to  the  roof  of  my 
throat.  Altogether,  I  have  never  felt  such  emotions  either  be- 
fore or  since. 

I  will  not  undertake  to  analyze  them,  or  account  for  those 
conflicting  sensations  which  make  us  shrink,  with  something 
like  terror,  from  the  very  object  which  we  desire.  At  length 
the  day  came,  and  the  man ;  attended  by  his  father,  William 
Edgerton,  and  myself,  took  our  places,  and  stood  prepared  for 
the  issue.  I  looked  round  me  with  a  dizzy  feeling  of  uncer- 
tainty. Objects  appeared  to  swim  and  tremble  before  my 
sight.  My  eyes  were  of  as  little  service  to  me  then  as  if  they 
had  been  gftzing  to  blindness  upon  the  sun.  Everything  was 
confused  and  imperfect.  I  could  see  that  the  courthouse  was 
filled  to  overflowing,  and  this  increased  my  feebleness.  The 
sase  was  one  that  had  occasioned  considerable  excitement  in 
tte  community,  It  was  one  of  no  ordinary  atrocity.  This  was 
a  sufficient  reason  why  the  audience  should  be  large.  There 


DEBUT.  .        45 

was  yet  another.  There  were  two  new  debutants.  In  a  com- 
munity where  popular  eloquence  is,  of  all  others,  perhaps  the 
most  desirable  talent,  this  circumstance  was  well  calculated  to 
bring  many  listeners.  Besides,  something  was  expected  from 
both  Edgerton  and  myself.  We  had  not  reached  our  present 
position  without  making  for  ourselves  a  little  circle,  in  which 
we  had  friends  to  approve  and  exult,  and  enemies  to  depreciate, 
and  condemn. 

The  proceedings  were  at  length  opened  by  the  attorney-gen- 
eral, the  witnesses  examined,  and  turned  over  to  us  for  cross- 
examination.  This  part  of  the  duty  was  performed  by  my  as- 
sociate. The  business  fairly  begun,  my  distraction  was  les- 
sened. My  mind,  driven  to  a  point,  made  a  decisive  stand  j 
and  the  sound  of  Edgerton's  voice,  as  he  proposed  his  questions, 
served  still  more  to  dissipate  my  confusion.  I  furnished  him 
with  sundry  questions,  and  our  examination  was  admitted  to  be 
quite  searching  and  acute.  My  friend  went 'through  his  part 
of  the  labor  with  singular  coolness.  He  was  in  little  or  no 
respect  excited.  He,  perhaps,  was  deficient  in  enthusiasm.  If 
there  was  no  faltering  in  what  he  said,  there  was  no  fine 
phrensy.  His  remarks  and  utterance  were  subdued  to  the 
plainest  demands  of  the  subject.  They  were  shrewd  and  sensi- 
ble, not  particularly  ingenious,  nor  yet  deficient  in  the  proper 
analysis  of  the  evidence.  He  acquitted  himself  creditably. 

It  was  my  part  to  reply  to  the  prosecuting  attorney ;  but 
when  I  rose,  I  was  completely  confounded.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  pang  of  that  impotence  which  seemed  to  overspread 
my  frame,  and  to  paralyze  every  faculty  of  thought  and  speech. 
I  was  the  victim  to  my  own  ardor.  A  terrible  reaction  of  mind 
had  taken  place,  and  I  was  prostrated.  The  desire  to  achieve 
greatness — the  belief  that  it  was  expected  from  me — the  con- 
sciousness that  hundreds  of  eyes  were  then  looking  into  mine 
with  hungering  expectation,  overwhelmed  me !  I  felt  that  I 
could  freely  have  yielded  myself  for  burial  beneath  the  floor 
on  which  I  stood.  My  cheeks  were  burning,  yet  my  hands  were 
cold  as  ice,  and  my  knees  tottered  as  with  an  ague.  I  strove 
to  speak,  however ;  the  eyes  of  the  judge  met  mine,  and  they 
looked  the  language  of  encouragement — of  pity.  But  this  ex- 
jj.ression  only  increased  my  confusion.  I  stammered  out  noth* 


46  CONFESSION,   Oil  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

ing  but  broken  syllables  and  incoherent  sentences.  What  1 
was  saying,  I  know  not — how  long  I  presented  this  melancholy 
spectacle  of  imbecility  to  the  eyes  of  my  audience,  I  know  not 
It  may  have  been  a  few  minutes  only.  To  me  it  seemed  an 
age ;  and  I  was  just  endued  with  a  sufficient  power  of  reflec- 
tion to  ask  myself  whether  I  had  not  better  sit  down  at  once 
in  irreversible  despair,  when  my  wandering  and  hitherto  vacant 
eyes  caught  a  glance  —  a  single  glance  —  of  a  face  opposite. 

It  was  that  of  my  uncle !  He  was  perched  on  one  of  the 
loftiest  benches,  conspicuous  among  the  crowd  —  his  eyes  keen- 
ly fixed  upon  mine,  and  his  features  actually  brightened  by  a 
smile  of  triumphant  malice  and  exultation. 

That  glance  restored  me.  That  single  smile  brought  me 
strength.  I  was  timid,  and  weak,  and  impotent  no  longer. 
Under  the  presence  of  habitual  scorn,  my  habitual  pride  and  in- 
dependence returned  to  me.  The  tremors  left  my  limbs.  The 
clammy  huskiness  which  had  loaded  iny  tongue,  and  made  it 
cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  instantly  departed ;  and  my 
whole  mind  returned  to  my  control  as  if  beneath  the  command 
of  some  almighty  voice.  I  now  saw  the  judge  distinctly — I 
could  see  the  distinct  features  of  every  juryman ;  and  with  the 
pride  of  my  restored  consciousness,  I  retorted  the  smile  upon 
my  uncle's  face  with  one  of  contempt,  which  was  not  without 
its  bitterness. 

Then  I  spoke,  and  spoke  with  an  intenseness,  a  directness  of 
purpose  and  aim  —  a  stern  deliberateness  —  a  fire  and  a  feeling 
—  which  certainly  electrified  my  hearers  with  surprise,  if  witli 
no  more  elevated  emotions.  That  one  look  of  hostility  had 
done  more  for  my  mind  than  could  have  been  effected  in  my 
behalf  by  all  the  kind  looks  and  encouraging  voices  of  all  the 
friends  in  creation. 

After  a  brief  exordium,  containing  some  general  propositions 
on  the  subject  of  human  testimony,  which  meant  no  more  than 
to  suggest  the  propriety  of  giving  to  the  prisoner  the  benefit 
of  what  was  doubtful  and  obscure  in  the  testimony  which  had 
been  taken  against  him — I  proceeded  to  compare  and  contrast 
its  several  parts.  There  were  some  inconsistencies  in  the  evi- 
dence which  enable  me  to  make  something  of  a  case.  The 
character  of  the  witnesses  was  something  more  than  doubtful 


DEBUT.  47 

And  that,  too,  helped,  in  a  slight  degree,  my  argument.  This 
was  rapid,  direct,  closely  wound  together,  and  proved — such 
was  the  opinion  freely  expressed  by  others,  afterward — that  I 
had  the  capacity  for  consecutive  arrangement  of  facts  and  in- 
ferences in  a  very  remarkable  degree.  I  closed  with  an  appeal 
in  favor  of  that  erring  nature,  which,  even  in  our  own  cases, 
led  us  hourly  to  the  commission  of  sins  and  errors ;  and  which, 
where  the  individual  was  poor,  wretched,  and  a  stranger,  under 
the  evil  influences  of  destitution,  vicious  associations,  and  a  lot 
in  life,  which,  of  necessity,  must  be  low,  might  well  persuade 
us  to  look  with  an  eye  of  qualified  rebuke  upon  his  offences. 

This  was,  of  course,  no  argument,  and  was  only  to  be  con- 
sidered the  natural  close  of  my  labors.  Before  I  was  half 
through  I  saw  my  uncle  rise  from  his  seat,  and  hastily  leave  the 
court-room ;  and  then  I  knew  that  I  was  successful — that  I  had 
triumphed,  through  that  stimulating  influence  of  his  hate,  over 
my  own  fears  and  feebleness.  I  felt  sure  that  the  speech  must 
be  grateful  to  the  rest  of  my  hearers,  which  he  could  not  stay 
to  hear ;  and  in  this  conviction,  the  tone  of  my  spirits  became 
elevated — the  thoughts  gushed  from  me  like  rain,  in  a  natural 
and  unrestrainable  torrent  of  language — my  voice  was  clear 
and  full,  far  more  so  than  I  had  ever  thought  it  could  be  made 
— and  my  action  far  more  animated,  perhaps,  than  either  good 
taste  or  the  occasion  justified.  The  criminal  was  not  acquitted ; 
but  both  William  Edgerton  and  myself  were  judged  to  have 
been  eminently  successful. 

The  result  of  my  debut,  in  other  respects,  was  flattering  far 
beyond  my  expectations.  Business  poured  in  upon  me.  My 
old  employers,  the  merchants,  were  particularly  encouraging 
and  friendly.  They  congratulated  me  warmly  on  my  success, 
assured  me  that  they  had  always  thought  I  was  better  calcu- 
lated for  the  law  than  trade ;  and  ended  by  putting  into  my 
hands  all  their  accounts  that  needed  a  legal  agency  for  collec- 
tion. Mr.  Edgerton  was  loud  in  his  approbation,  and  that  very 
week  saw  his  son  and  myself  united  in  co-partnership,  with  the 
prospect  of  an  early  withdrawal  of  the  father  from  business  in 
«rar  favor.  Indeed,  the  latter  gave  us  to  understand  that  hia 
only  purpose  now  was  to  see  us  fairly  under  way,  with  a  suffi- 
cient knowledge  of  the  practice,  and  assured  of  the  confidence 


48  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

of  his  own  friends,  in  order  to  give  his  years  and  enfeebled 
health  a  respite  from  the  toils  of  the  profession. 

My  worthy  uncle,  true  to  himself,  played  a  very  different 
part  from  these  gentlemen.  He  hung  back,  forbore  all  words 
on  the  subject  of  my  debut,  and  of  the  promising  auspices 
under  which  my  career  was  begun,  and  actually  placed  certain 
matters  of  legal  business  into  the  hands  of  another  lawyer. 
Of  this,  he  himself  gave  me  the  first  information  in  very  nearly 
this  language : — 

"  I  have  juut  had  to  sue  Yardle  &  Fellows,  and  a  few  others, 
Edward,  and  I  thought  of  employing  you,  but  you  are  young, 
and  there  may  be  some  legal  difficulties  in  the  way  : — but  when 
you  get  older,  and  arrive  at  some  experience,  we  will  see  what 
can  be  done  for  you." 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,  sir,"  was  my  only  answer,  but  the 
smile  upon  my  lips  said  everything.  I  saw,  then,  that  he  could 
not  smile.  He  was  now  exchanging  the  feeling  of  scorn  which 
he  formerly  entertained  for  one  of  a  darker  quality.  Hate  waa 
the  necessary  feeling  which  followed  the  conviction  of  his  having 
done  me  wilful  injustice — not  to  speak  of  the  duties  left  undone, 
which  were  equally  his  shame. 

There  were  several  things  to  mortify  him  in  my  progress. 
His  sagacity  as  a  man  of  the  world  stood  rebuked  —  his  con- 
duct as  a  gentleman — his  blood  as  a  relation,  who  had  not 
striven  for  the  welfare  and  good  report  of  his  kin,  and  who  had 
suffered  unworthy  prejudices,  the  result  of  equal  avarice  and 
arrogance,  to  operate  against  him. 

There  is  nothing  which  a  base  spirit  remembers  with  so  much 
malignant  tenacity  as  your  success  in  his  despite.  Even  in  the 
small  matter  just  referred  to,  the  appropriation  of  his  law  busi- 
ness, the  observant  fates  gave  me  my  revenge.  By  a  singular 
coincidence  of  events,  the  very  firm  against  which  he  had 
brought  action  the  day  before  were  clients  of  Mr.  Edgerton. 
That  gentleman  was  taken  with  a  serious  illness  at  the  ap- 
proach of  the  next  court,  and  the  business  of  their  defence 
devolved  upon  his  son  and  myself;  and  finally,  when  it  wai 
disposed  of,  which  did  not  happen  till  near  the  close  of  that 
year,  it  so  happened  that  I  argued  the  case ;  and  was  suc- 
cessful. 


DEBUT.  49 

Mr.  Clifford  was  baffled,  and  you  may  judge  the  feeling  with 
??hich  he  now  regarded  me.  He  had  long  since  ceased  to  jest 
with  me  and  at  my  expense.  He  was  now  very  respectful,  and 
I  could  see  that  his  dislike  grew  daily  in  strict  degree  with  his 
deference.  But  the  deportment  of  Mi.  Clifford  —  springing  as 
it  dii  from  that  devil,  which  each  man  is  supposed  to  carry  at 
times  in  his  bosom,  and  of  whose  presence  in  mine  at  seasons  I 
was  far  from  unaware  —  gave  me  less  annoyance  than  that  of 
•aiother  of  his  household.  Julia,  too,  had  put  on  an  aspect 
which,  if  not  that  of  coldness,  was  at  least,  that  of  a  very 
marked  reserve.  I  ascribed  this  to  the  influence  of  her  parents 
—  perhaps,  to  her  own  sense  of  what  was  due  to  their  obvious 
desires  —  to  her  own  feeling  of  indifference  —  to  any  and  every 
cause  but  the  right  one. 

There  were  other  circumstances  to  alarm  me,  in  connection 
with  this  maiden.  She  was,  as  I  have  said,  singularly  beauti- 
ful ;  and,  as  I  thought,  until  now,  singularly  meek  and  consid- 
erate. Her  charms,  about  which  there  could  be  no  two  opinions, 
readily  secured  her  numerous  admirers,  and  when  these  were 
strengthened  by  the  supposed  fortune  of  which  she  was  to  be 
the  heiress,  the  suitors  were,  some  of  them,  almost  as  pressing, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  world  in  which  we  lived,  as  those  of 
Penelope.  I  now  no  longer  secured  her  exclusive  regard  at 
the  evening  fireside  or  in  our  way  to  church.  There  were  gal- 
lants on  either  hand — gay,  dashing  lads,  with  big  whisker*1, 
long  locks,  and  smart  ratans,  upon  wThom  madame,  our  lady- 
usother,  looked  with  far  more  complacency  than  upon  me.  The 
course  of  Julia,  herself,  was,  however,  unexceptionable.  She 
was  singularly  cautious  in  her  deportment,  and,  if  reserved  to  me. 
the  most  jealous  scrutiny  -after  due  reflection — never  enabled 
me  to  discover  that  she  was  more  lavish  of  her  regards  to  any 
other.  But  the  discovery  of  her  position  led  me  to  another 
discovery  which  the  reader  will  wonder,  as  I  did  myself,  that 
I  had  not  made  before.  This  was  the  momentous  discovery 
that  my  heart  was  irretrievably  lost  to  her  —  that  I  loved  her 
with  all  the  intensity  of  a  first  passion,  which,  like  every  other 
passion  in  my  heart,  was  absorbing  during  its  prevalence.  I 
could  name  my  feelings  to  myself  only  when  I  perceived  that 
such  feelings  were  entertained  by  others;  —  only  when  I  found 

3 


00  CONFESSION,    Oli   THE   P.LJXD    J1EA11T. 

that  the  prize,  which  I  desired  beyond  all  others,  was  likely  1 3 
be  borne  away  by  strangers,  did  I  know  how  much  it  was  desi- 
rable to  myself. 

The  discovery  of  this  affection  instantly  produced  its_ natural 
effects  as  well  upon  my  deportment  as  upon  my  feelings ;  and 
that  sleepless  spirit  of  suspicion  and  doubt — that  true  creature 
and  consequence  of  the  habitual  distrust  which  my  treatment 
from  boyhood  had  insiilled  into  my  mind  —  at  once  rose  to 
strength  and  authority  within  me,  and  swayed  me  even  as  the 
blasts  of  November  sway  the  bald  tops  of  the  slender  trees 
which  the  gusts  have  already  denuded  of  all  foliage.  The 
change  in  Julia's  deportment,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken, 
increased  the  febrile  fears  and  suspicions  which  filled  my  soul 
and  overcame  my  judgment.  She  too  —  so  I  fancied — had 
learned  to  despise  and  dislike  me,  under  the  goading  influences 
tif  her  father's  malice  and  her  mother's  silly  prejudices.  I 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  instantly,  that  I  v/as  bound  to  my* 
self  to  assert  my  superiority,  my  pride  and  independence,  in 
such  a  manner,  as  most  effectually  to  satisfy  all  parties  tha 
their  hate  or  love  was  equally  a  matter  of  indifference. 

You  may  judge  what  my  behavior  was  after  this.  For  a 
time,  at  least,  it  was  sufficiently  unbecoming.  The  deportment  of 
Julia  grew  more  reserved  than  ever,  and  her  looks  more  grave. 
There  was  a  sadness  evidently  mingled  with  this  gravity  which, 
amid  all  the  blindness  of  my  heart,  I  could  not  help  but  see. 
She  became  sadder  and  thinner  every  day ;  and  there  was  a 
wo-begone  listlessness  about  her  looks  and  movements  wlii^ 
began  to  give  me  pain  and  apprehension,  I  discovered,  too, 
after  a  while,  that  some  apprehensions  had  also  crept  into  the 
minds  of  her  parents  in  respect  to  her  hjalth.  Their  looks 
were  frequently  addressed  to  her  in  evident  anxiety.  They 
restrained  her  exercises,  watched  the  weather  when  she  pro- 
posed to  go  abroad,  strove  in  every  way  to  keep  her  from 
fatigue  and  exposure ;  and,  altogether,  exhibited  a  degree  of 
solicitude  which  at  length  had  the  effect  of  arousing  mine. 

Involuntarily,  I  approached  her  with  more  tenderness  than 
my  vexing  spirit  had  recently  permitted  me  to  show ;  but  I  re- 
coiled from  the  effects  of  my  own  attentions.  I  was  vexed  to 
perceive  that  my  approaches  occasioned  a  start,  a  flutter — a 


DEBUT.  51 

shrinking  inward — as  if  my  advance  had  been  obtrusive,  and 
lay  attempts  at  familiarity  offensive. 

1  was  then  little  schooled  in  the  intricacies  of  the  female 
heart.  I  little  conjectured  the  origin  of  that  seemingly  para- 
doxical movement  of  the  mind,  which,  in  the  case  of  one, 
sensitive  and  exquisitely  delicate,  prompts  to  flight  from  the 
very  pursuit  which  it  would  yet  invite ;  which  dreads  to  be  sus- 
pected of  the  secret  which  it  yet  most  loves  to  cherish,  and 
seeks  to  protect,  by  concealment,  the  feelings  which  it  may  not 
defend  ;  even  as  the  bird  hides  the  little  fledglings  of  its  care 
from  the  hunter,  whom  it  dare  not  attack. 

Stupid,  and  worse  than  stupid,  my  blind  heart  saw  nothing 
of  this,  and  perverted  what  it  saw.  I  construed  the  conduct 
of  Julia  into  matter  of  offence,  to  be  taken  in  high  dudgeon 
and  resolutely  resented ;  and  I  drew  myself  up  stiffly  when  she 
appeared,  and  by  excess  of  ceremonious  politeness  only,  avoided 
the  reproach  of  brutality.  Yet,  even  at  such  moments,  I  could 
see  that  there  was  a  dewy  reproach  in  her  eyes,  which  should 
have  humbled  me,  and  made  me  penitent.  But  the  effects  of 
fifteen  years  of  injudicious  management  were  not  to  be  dis- 
ripated  in  a  few  days  even  by  the  Ithuriel  spells  of  love.  My 
sense  of  independence  and  self-resource  had  been  stimulated  to 
a  diseased  excess,  until,  constantly  on  the  qui  vive,  it  became 
dogged  and  inflexible.  It  was  a  work  of  time  to  soften  me 
and  make  me  relent ;  and  the  labor  then  was  one  of  my  own 
secret  thoughts,  and  unbiased  private  decision.  The  attempt 
to  persuade  or  reason  me  into  a  conviction  was  sure  to  be  a 
failure. 

Months  passed  in  this  manner  without  effecting  any  serious 
change  in  Julia,  or  in  bringing  us  a  step  nearer  to  one  another. 
Meanwhile,  the  sphere  of  my  observation  and  importance  in- 
creased, as  the  circle  of  my  acquaintance  became  extended.  I 
was  regarded  as  a  rising  young  man,  and  one  likely  to  be  suc- 
cessful ultimately  in  my  profession.  The  social  privileges  of 
my  friends,  the  Edgertons,  necessarily  became  mine ;  and  it 
soon  occurred  that  I  encountered  my  uncle  and  his  family  in 
circles  in  which  it  was  somewhat  a  matter  of  pride  with  him  to 
be  permitted  to  move.  This,  as  it  increased  my  importance 
in  his  sight,  did  not  diminish  his  pains.  But  he  treated  me 


52  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

now  with  constant  deference,  though  with  the  same  unvarying 
coldness.  When  in  the  presence  of  others,  lie  warmed  a  little, 
I  was  then  "  his  nephew ;"  and  he  would  affect  to  speak  with 
great  familiarity  on  the  subject  of  my  business,  my  interests. 
the  last  case  in  which  I  was  engaged,  and  so  forth  —  the  object 
of  which  was  to  persuade  third  persons  that  our  relations  weie 
precisely  as  they  should  be,  and  as  people  would  naturally  sup- 
pose them. 

At  all  these  places  and  periods,  when  it  was  my  lot  to  meet 
with  Julia,  she  was  most  usually  the  belle  of  the  night.  A 
dozen  attendants  followed  in  her  train,  solicitous  of  all  her 
smiles,  and  only  studious  how  to  afford  her  pleasure.  I,  only, 
stood  aloof — I,  who  loved  her  with  a  more  intense  fervor  than 
all,  simply  because  I  had  none,  or  few  besides  to  love.  The 
heart  which  has  been  evermore  denied,  will  always  burn  with 
this  intensity.  Its  passion,  once  enkindled,  will  be  the  all-ab- 
sorbing flame.  Devoted  itself,  it  exacts  the  most  religions 
devotion ;  and,  unless  it  receives  it,  recoils  upon  its  own  re- 
sources, and  shrouds  itself  in  gloom,  srmply  to  hide  its  sufferings 
from  detection. 

I  affected  that  indifference  to  the  charms  ®f  this  maiden, 
which  no  one  of  human  sensibilities  could  have  felt.  Opinions 
might  have  differed  in  respect  to  her  beauty;  but  there  could 
be  none  on  the  score  of  her  virtues  and  her  amiability,  and  al- 
most as  few  on  the  possessions  of  her  mind.  Julia  Clifford, 
though  singularly  unobtrusive  in  society,  very  soon  convinced 
all  around  her  that  she  had  an  excellent  understanding,  which 
study  had  improved,  and  grace  had  adorned  by  all  the  most 
appropriate  modes  of  cultivation.  Her  steps  were  always  fol- 
lowed by  a  crowd  —  her  seat  invariably  encircled  by  a  group  to 
itself.  1  looked  on  at  a  distance,  wrapped  up  in  the  impene- 
trable folds  of  a  pride,  whose  sleeves  were  momently  plucked, 
as  1  watched,  by  the  nervous  fingers  of  jealousy  and  suspicion. 
Sometimes  I  caught  a  timid  glance  of  her  eye,  addressed  to  th<? 
spot  where  I  stood,  full  of  inquiry,  and,  as  I  could  not  but  be- 
lieve, of  apprehension;  —  and  yet,  at  such  moments;  I  turned 
perversely  from  the  spot,  nor  GuiTere4  my  eel  f  i,o  steal  anotb^r 
look  at  one,  all  of  whose  temmylae  seemed  xn/i<le  at  my  ear- 
pense. 


DEBUT.  63 

On  one  of  these  occasions  we  met— our  eyes  and  Lands,  ac- 
cidentally ;  and,  though  I,  myself,  could  not  help  starting  back 
with  a  cold  chill  at  my  heart,  I  yet  fancied  there  was  some^ 
thing  monstrous  insulting  in  the  evident  recoil  of  her  person 
from  the  contact  with  mine,  at  the  same  moment.  I  was  about 
to  turn  hurriedly  away  with  a  slight  bow  of  acknowledgment, 
when  the  touching  tenderness  of  her  glance,  so  full  of  sweet- 
ness and  sadness,  made  me  shrink  with  shame  from  such  a  rude- 
ness. Besides,  she  was  so  pale,  so  thin,  and  really  looked  so 
unwell,  that  my  conscience,  in  spite  of  that  blind  heart  whose 
perversity  would  still  have  kept  me  to  my  first  intention,  re- 
buked me,  and  drove  me  to  my  duty.  I  approached  —  I  spoke 
to  her — and  my  words,  though  few,  under  the  better  impulses 
of  the  moment,  were  gentle  and  solicitous,  as  they  should  have 
been.  My  tones,  too,  were  softened:  —  wilfully  as  I  still  felt, 
I  could  not  forbear  the  exercise  of  that  better  ministry  of  the 
affections  which  was  disposed  to  make  amends  for  previous  mis- 
conduct. I  do  not  know  exactly,  what  I  said — I  probably  did 
nothing  more  than  utter  the  ordinary  phrases  of  social  compli- 
ment ;  —  but  everything  was  obliterated  from  my  mind  in  an 
instant,  by  the  startling  directness  of  what  was  said  by  her. 
Looking  at  me  with  a  degree  of  intentness  by  which,  alone, 
she  was,  perhaps,  able  to  preseiye  her  seeming  calmness,  she 
replied  by  an  inquiry  as  remote  from  what  my  observation 
called  for  as  possible,  yet  how  applicable  to  me  and  my  conduct ! 

"  Why  do  you  treat  me  thus,  Edward  ?  Why  do  you  neg- 
lect me  as  you  do  —  as  if  I  were  a  stranger,  or,  at  least,  not 
a  fiiend  ?  What  have  I  done  to  merit  this  usage  from  one 
W110 " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  her  reproachful  eyes,  full 
of  a  dewy  suffusion  that  seemed  very  much  like  tears,  appeare3 
to  conclude  it  thus — 

"  One  who — used  to  love  me !" 

So  different  was  this  speech  from  any  tliat  I  looked  for — 0$ 
different  from  what  the  usage  of  our  conventional  world  woull 
have  seemed  to  justify — so  strange  for  one  so  timid,  so  silent 
usually  on  the  subject  of  her  own  griefs,  as  Julia  Clifford  — 
that  I  was  absolutely  confounded.  Where  had  she  got  this  cour- 
age ?  By  what  strong  feeling  ha-i  H  been  stimulated  1  Had  J 


i>4  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEAB.T. 

been  at  that  time  as  well  acquainted  with  the  sex  as  I  have 
grown  since,  I  must  have  seen  that  nothing  but  a  deep  interest 
in  my  conduct  and  regard,  could  possibly  have  prompted  the 
spirit  of  one  so  gentle  and  shrinking,  to  the  utterance  of  so 
searching  an  appeal.  And  in  what  way  could  I  answer  it  ? 
How  could  I  excuse  myself?  What  say,  to  justify  that  cold, 
rude  indifference  to  a  relative,  and  one  who  had  ever  been 
gentle  and  kind  and  true  to  me.  I  had  really  nothing  to  com- 
plain of.  The  vexing  jealousies  of  my  own  suspicious  heart 
had  alone  informed  it  to  its  perversion ;  and  there  I  stood  — 
dumb,  confused,  stupid  —  speaking,  when  I  did  speak,  some  in- 
coherent, meaningless  sentences,  which  could  no  more  have  been 
understood  by  her  than  they  can  now  be  remembered  by  mo. 
I  recovered  myself,  however,  sufficiently  soon  to  say,  before  we 
were  separated  by  the  movements  of  the  crowd : — 

"  I  will  come  to  you  to-morrow,  Julia.  Will  you  suffer  me 
to  see  you  in  th  3  morning,  say  at  twelve  ?" 

"  Yes,  come !  '  was  all  her  answer ;  and  the  next  moment  the 
hnreh  accents  .  f  her  ever-watchful  mother  warned  us  to  sask 
no  more. 


DENIAL  AtfD  DEFEAT,  55 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DENIAL    AND    DEFEAT. 

MY  sleep  that  night  was  anything  but  satisfactory.  I  had 
feverish  dreams,  unquiet  slumbers,  and  woke  at  morning  with 
an  excruciating  headache.  I  was  in  no  mood  for  an  explana- 
tion such  as  my  promise  necessarily  implied,  but  I  prepared  my 
toilet  with  particular  care  —  spent  two  hours  at  my  office  in  a 
vain  endeavor  to  divert  myself,  by  a  resort  to  business,  from  the 
conflicting  and  annoying  sensations  which  afflicted  me,  and  then 
proceeded  to  the  dwelling  of  my  uncle. 

I  was  fortunate  in  seeing  Julia  without  the  presence  of  her 
mother.  That  good  lady  had  become  too  fashionable  to  suffer 
herself  to  be  seen  at  so  early  an  hour.  Her  vanity,  in  this  re- 
spect, baffled  her  vigilance,  for  she  had  her  own  apprehensions 
on  the  score  of  my  influence  upon  her  daughter.  Julia  was 
scarcely  so  composed  in  the  morning  as  she  had  appeared  on 
the  preceding  night.  I  was  now  fully  conscious  of  a  flutter  in 
her  manner,  a  flush  upon  her  face,  an  ill-suppressed  apprehen- 
sion in  her  eyes,  which  betokened  strong  emotions  actively  at 
work.  But  my  own  agitation  did  not  suffer  me  to  know  the 
full  extent  of  hers.  For  the  first  time,  on  her  appearance,  did 
I  ask  myself  the  question  —  "For  what  did  I  seek  this  inter- 
view ?"  What  had  I  to  say  —  what  near]  How  explain  my 
conduct  —  my  coldness  ?  On  what  imaginary  and  unsubstantial 
premises  base  the  neglect  in  my  deportment,  amounting  to  rude- 
ness, of  which  she  had  sufficient  reason  and  a  just  right  to  com- 
plain 1  When  I  came  to  review  my  causes  of  vexation,  how 
trivial  did  they  seem.  The  reserve  which  had  irritated  me,  on 
her  part,  now  that  I  analyzed  its  sources,  seemed  a  very  natural 
reserve,  such  as  was  only  maidenly  and  becoming.  I  now  rec- 
ollected that  she  was  no  longer  a  child — no  longer  the  lively 


56  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

little  fairy  whom  I  could  dandle  on  my  knee  and  fling  upon  my 
shoulder,  without  a  scruple  or  complaint.  I  stood  like  a  trem- 
bling culprit  in  her  presence.  I  was  eloquent  only  through  the 
force  of  a  stricken  conscience. 

"  Julia  !"  I  exclaimed  when  we  met,  "  I  have  come  to  make 
atonement.  I  feel  how  rude  I  have  been,  but  that  was  only 
because  I  was  very  wretched." 

"  Wretched,  Edward  !"  she  exclaimed  with  some  surprise. 
"  What  should  make  you  wretched  ?" 

"  You — you  have  made  me  wretched." 

"  Me  !"     Her  surprise  naturally  increased 

"  Yes,  you,  dear  Julia,  and  you  only." 

I  took  her  hand  in  mine.  Mine  was  burning — hers  was 
colder  than  the  icicles.  Need  I  say  more  to  those  who  com- 
prehend the  mysteries  of  the  youthful  heart.  Need  I  say  that 
the  tongue  once  loosed,  and  the  declaration  of  the  soul  must 
follow  in  a  rush  from  the  lips.  I  told  her  how  much  I  loved 
her;  —  how  unhappy  it  made  me  to  think  that  others  might 
bear  away  the  prize ;  that,  in  this  way,  my  rudeness  arose  from 
my  wretchedness,  and  my  wretchedness  only  from  my  love.  I 
did  not  speak  in  vain.  She  confessed  an  equal  feeling,  and  we 
were  suffered  a  brief  hour  of  unmitigated  happiness  together. 

Surely  there  is  no  joy  like  that  which  the  heart  feels  in  the 
first  moment  when  it  gives  utterance  to  its  own,  and  hears  the 
avowed  passion  of  the  desired  object:  — a  pure  flame,  the  child 
of  sentiment,  just  blushing  with  the  hues  of  passion,  just  bud- 
ding with  the  breath  and  bloom  of  life.  No  sin  has  touched 
the  sentiment;  —  no  gross  smokes  have  risen  to  involve  and  ob- 
scure the  flame  ;  the  altar  is  tended  by  pure  hands ;  white 
spirits  ;  and  there  is  no  reptile  beneath  the  fresh  blossoming 
flowers  which  are  laid  thereon.  The  grosser  passions  sleep, 
like  the  fumes  at  the  shrine  of  Apollo,  beneath  the  spell  of  that 
master  passion  in  whose  presence  they  can  only  maintain  a  sub^ 
ordinate  existence.  I  loved  ;  I  had  told  my  love  ;  —  and  I  was 
loved  in  return.  I  trembled  with  the  deep  intoxication  of  that 
bewildering  moment ;  and  how  I  found  my  way  back  to  my 
office — whom  I  saw  on  the  way,  or  to  whom  I  spoke,  I  know 
not.  I  loved;  —  I  was  beloved.  He  only  can  conceive  the 
delirium  of  this  sweet  knowledge  who  has  passed  a  life  like 


DENIAL  AND   DEFEAT.  57 

mhie — who  lias  felt  the  frowns  and  the  scorn,  and  the  contempt 
of  those  who  should  have  nurtured  him  with  smiles — whose 
soul,  ardent  and  sensitive,  has  been  made  to  recoil  cheerlessly 
back  on  itself — denied  the  sunshine  of  the  affections,  and  al- 
most forbade  to  hope.  Suddenly,  when  I  believed  myself  most 
destitute,  I  had  awakened  to  fortune  —  to  the  realization  of 
desires  which  were  beyond  my  fondest  dreams.  I,  whom  no 
affection  hitherto  had  blessed,  had,  in  a  moment,  acquired  that 
which  seemed  to  me  to  comprise  all  others,  and  for  which  all 
others  might  have  been  profitably  thrown  away. 

I  fancied  now  that  henceforth  my  sky  was  to  be  without  a 
cloud.  I  did  not  —  nor  did  Julia  imagine  for  a  moment  that  any 
opposition  to  our  love  could  arise  from  her  parents.  What  reason 
now  could  they  have  to  oppose  it  ?  There  was  no  inequality  in 
our  social  positions.  My  blood  had  taken  its  rise  from  the  same 
fountains  with  her  own.  In  the  world's  estimation  my  rank  was 
quite  as  respectable  as  that  of  any  in  my  uncle's  circle,  and,  for 
my  condition,  my  resources,  though  small,  were  improving  daily, 
and  I  had  already  attained  such  a  place  among  my  professional 
brethren,  as  to  leave  it  no  longer  doubtful  that  it  must  continue  to 
improve.  My  income,  with  economy  —  such  economy  as  two 
simple,  single-minded  creatures,  like  Julia  and  myself,  were 
willing  to  employ  —  would  already  yield  us  a  decent  support. 
In  short,  the  idea  of  my  uncle's  opposition  to  the  match  never 
once  entered  my  head.  Yet  he  did  oppose  it.  I  was  confound- 
ed with  his  blunt,  and  almost  rugged  refusal.  ^ 

"  Why,  sir,  what  are  your  objections  ?" 

He  answered  with  sufficient  coolness. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  refuse  you,  Edward,  but  I  have  already  formed 
other  arrangements  for  my  daughter.  I  have  designed  her  for 
another." 

"Indeed,  sir  —  may  I. ask  with  whom  1" 

"  Young  Roberts  —  his  father  and  myeelf  have  had  the  matter 
for  some  time  in  deliberation.  But  do  not  speak  of  it,  Edward 
--my  confidence  in  you,  alone,  induces  in 3  to  state  this  fact," 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  cir  ;  —  but  you  do  not  sure- 
ly mean  to  force  ycung  Roberts  upon  Julia,  if  she  is  unwil- 
ling?" 

"  Ah,  she  will  not  be  unwilling.     She's  a  dutiful  child,  who 


58  CONFESSION,    OB  THE   BLIND    HEART. 

will  readily  recognise  the  desires  of  her  parents  as  the  truest 
wisdom." 

"But,  Mr.  Clifford — you  forget  that  Julia  has  already  admit- 
ted to  me  a  preference " 

"  So  you  tell  me,  Edward,  and  it  is  with  regret  that  I  feel 
myself  compelled  to  say  that  I  wholly  disapprove  of  your  seek- 
ing my  daughter's  consent,  before  you  first  thought  proper  to 
obtain  mine.  This  seems  to  me  very  much  like  an  abuse  of  con- 
fidence." 

"  Really,  sir,  you  surprise  me  more  than  ever.  Now  that  you 
force  me  to  speak,  let  me  say  that,  regarding  myself  as  of  blood 
scarcely  inferior  to  that  of  my  cousin,  I  can  not  see  how  the  privi- 
lege of  which  I  availed  myself  in  proposing  for  her  hand,  can  be 
construed  into  a  breach  of  confidence.  I  trust,  sir,  that  you 
have  not  contemplated  your  brother's  son  in  any  degrading  or 
unbecoming  attitude." 

"  No,  no,  surely  not,  Edward ;  but  mere  equality  of  birth 
docs  not  constitute  a  just  claim,  by  itself,  to  the  affections  of  a 
lady." 

"  I  trust  the  equality  of  birth,  sir,  is  not  impaired  on  my  part 
by  misconduct  —  by  a  want  of  industry,  capacity — by  inequal- 
ities in  other  respects — " 

"  And  talents !" 

He  finished  the  sentence  with  the  ancient  sneer.  But  I  was 
now  a  man  —  a  strong  one,  and,  at  this  moment  particularly  a 
stern  one. 

"  Stop,  sir,"  I  retorted ;  "  there  must  be  an  end  to  this. 
Whether  you  accede  to  my  application  or  not,  sir,  there  is  noth- 
ing to  justify  you  in  an  attempt  to  goad  and  mortify  my  feelings. 
I  have  proffered  to  you  a  respectful  application  for  the  hand  of 
of  your  daughter,  and  though  I  were  poorer,  and  humbler,  and 
less  worthy  in  all  respects  than  I  am,  I  should  still  be  entitled 
to  respectful  treatment.  At  another  time,  with  my  sensibilities 
less  deeply  interested  than  they  are,  I  should  probably  submit, 
as  I  have  already  frequently  submitted,  to  the  unkind  and  ungen- 
erous sarcasms  in  which  you  have  permitted  yourself  to  indulge 
at  my  expense.  But  my  regard  for  your  daughter  alone  would 
prompt  me  to  resent  and  repel  them  now.  The  object  of  my 
•interview  with  you  is  quite  too  sacred — too  oolemnly  invested 


DENIAL   AND   DEFEAT.  59 

—  to  suffer  me  to  stand  silently  under  the  scornful  usage  even 
of  her  father." 

All  this  may  have  been  deserved  by  Mr.  Clifford,  but  it  was 
scarcely  discreet  in  me.  It  gave  him  the  opportunity  which, 
I  do  not  doubt,  he  desired  —  the  occasion  which  he  had  in 
view.  It  afforded  him  an  excuse  for  anger,  for  a  regular  out- 
brea1'  between  us,  which,  in  some  sort,  yielded  him  that  justi- 
fication for  his  refusal,  without  which  he  would  have  found  it  a 
very  difficult  matter  to  account  for  or  excuse.  We  parted  in 
mutual  anger,  the  effect  of  which  was  to  close  his  doors 
against  me,  and  exclude  me  from  all  opportunities  of  interview 
with  Julia,  unless  by  stealth.  Even  then,  these  opportunities 
were  secured  by  my  artifice,  without  her  privity.  As  dutiful 
as  fond,  she  urged  me  against  them ;  and,  resolute  to  "  honor 
her  father  and  mother"  in  obedience  to  those  holy  laws  with- 
out a  compliance  with  which  there  is  little  hope  and  no  happi- 
ness, she  informed  me  with  many  tears  that  she  was  now  for- 
bidden to  see  me,  and  would  therefore  avoid  every  premedi- 
tated arrangement  for  our  meeting.  I  did  not  do  justice  to  her 
character,  but  reproached  her  with  coldness — with  a  want  of 
affection,  sensibility,  and  feeling. 

"Do  not  say  so,  Edward  —  do  not  —  do  not !  I  cold  —  I  in- 
sensible—  I  wanting  in  affection  for  you!  How,  how  can  you 
think  so  1"  And  she  threw  herself  on  my  bosom  and  sobbed 
until  I  began  to  fancy  that  convulsions  would  follow. 

We  separated,  finally,  with  assurances  of  mutual  fidelity  — 
assurances  which,  I  knew,  from  the  exclusiveness  of  all  my 
feelings,  my  concentrative  singleness  of  character,  and  entire 
dependence  upon  the  beloved  object  of  those  affections  which 
were  now  the  sole  solace  of  my  heart,  would  not  be  difficult  for 
me  to  keep.  But  I  doubted  her  strength  —  her  resolution  — 
against  the  pressing  solicitations  of  parents  whom  she  had  never 
been  accustomed  to  withstand.  But  she  quieted  me  with  that 
singular  earnestness  of  look  and  manner  which  had  once  before 
impressed  me  previous  to  our  mutual  explanation.  Like  vulgar 
thinkers  generally,  I  was  apt  to  confound  weakness  of  frame 
and  delicacy  of  organization  with  a  want  of  courage  and  moral 
resources  of  strength  and  consolation. 

"Fear  nothing  for  my  truth,  Edward.     Though,  in  obedience 


dO  CONFESSION,   OK   THE  BLIND   HEABT. 

to  my  parents,  I  shall  not  marry  against  their  will,  be  sur«  I 
shall  never  marry  against  my  own." 

"  Ah,  Julia,  yon  think  so,  but — " 

"  I  know  so,  Edward.  Believe  nothing  that  you  hear  against 
me  or  of  ine,  which  is  unfavorable  to  my  fidelity,  until  you  hear 
it  from  my  own  lips." 

"But  you  will  meet  me  again  —  soon?" 

"  No,  no,  do  not  ask  it,  Edward.  We  must  not  meet  in  this 
manner.  It  is  not  right.  It  is  criminal." 

I  had  soon  another  proof  of  the  decisive  manner  in  which  my 
uncle  seemed  disposed  to  carry  on  the  war  between  us.  Er- 
ring, like  the  greater  number  of  our  young  men,  in  their  ambi- 
tious desire  to  enter  public  life  prematurely,  I  was  easily  per- 
suaded to  become  a  candidate  for  the  general  assembly.  I  was 
now  just  twenty-five  —  at  a  time  when  young  men  are  not  yet 
released  from  the  bias  of  early  associations,  and  the  unavoida- 
ble influence  of  guides,  who  are  generally  blind  guides.  Until 
thirty,  there  are  few  men  who  think  independently ;  -and,  until 
this  habit  is  acquired  —  which,  in  too  many  cases,  never  is  ac- 
quired—  the  individual  is  sadly  out  of  place  in  the  halls  of 
legislation.  'It  is  this  premature  disposition  to  enter  into  pub- 
lic life,  which  is  the  sole  origin  of  the  numberless  mistakes  and 
miserable  inconsistencies  into  which  our  statesmen  fall ;  which 
cling  to  their  progress  for  ever  after,  preventing  their  perform- 
ances, and  baffling  them  in  all  their  hopes  to  secure  the  confi- 
dence of  the  people.  They  are  broken-down  political  hacks  in 
the  prime  of  life,  and  just  at  the  time  when  they  should  be  first 
entering  upon  the  duties  of  the  public  man.  Seduced,  like  the 
rest,  as  well  by  my  own  vanity  as  the  suggestions  of  favoring 
friends,  I  permitted  my  name  to  be  announced,  and  engaged 
actively  in  the  canvass.  Perhaps  the  feverish  state  of  my  mind, 
in  consequence  of  my  relations  with  Julia  Clifford  and  her  pa- 
rents, made  me  more  willing  to  adopt  a  measure,  about  which, 
at  any  other  time,  I  should  have  been  singularly  slow  and  cau- 
tious. As  a  man  of  proud,  reserved,  and  suspicious  temper,  I 
had  little  or  no  confidence  in  my  own  strength  with  the  people ; 
and  defeat  would  be  more  mortifying  than  success  grateful  to  a 
person  of  my  pride.  I  fancied,  however,  that  popular  life  would 
somewhat  subdue  the  consuming  passions  which  were  rioting 


DENIAL  AND   DEFEAT.  61 

within  my  bosom ;  and  I  threw  myself  into  the  thick  of  tta 
struggle  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  sanguine  temperament. 

To  my  surprise  and  increased  vexation,  I  found  my  worthy 
uncle  striving  in  every  possible  way,  without  actually  declaring 
his  purpose,  in  opposing  my  efforts  and  prospects.  It  is  true 
he  did  not  utter  my  name  ;  but  he  had  formed  a  complete  ticket, 
in  which  my  name  was  not ;  and  he  was  toiling  with  all  the 
industry  of  a  thoroughgoing  partisan  in  promoting  its  success. 
The  cup  which  he  had  commended  to  my  lips  was  overrunning 
with  the  gall  of  bitterness.  Hostility  to  me  seemed  really  to 
have  been  a  sort  of  monomania  with  him  from  the  first.  How 
else  was  this  ranton  procedure  to  be  accounted  for  ?  how,  even 
with  this  belief,  could  it  be  excused  1  His  conduct  was  cer- 
tainly one  of  those  mysteries  of  idiosyncracy  upon  which  the 
moral  philosopher  may  speculate  to  doomsday  without  being  a 
jot  the  wiser. 

If  his  desire  was  to  baffle  me,  he  was  successful.  I  was  de- 
feated, after  a  close  struggle,  by  a  meagre  majority  of  seven 
votes  in  some  seventeen  hundred ;  and  the  night  after  the  elec- 
tion was  declared,  he  gave  a  ball  in  honor  of  the  successful 
candidates,  in  which  his  house  was  filled  to  overflowing.  I 
passed  the  dwelling  about  midnight.  Music  rang  from  the  illu- 
minated parlor.  The  merry  dance  proceeded.  All  was  life, 
gayety,  and  rich  profusion.  And  Julia  !  even  then  she  might 
have  been  whirling  in  the  capricious  movements  of  the  dance 
with  my  happy  rival  —  she  as  happy  —  unconscious  of  him  who 
glided  like  some  angry  spectre  beneath  her  windows,  and  al- 
most within  hewing  of  her  thoughtless  voice. 

Such  weic  my  gloomy  thoughts-  such  the  dark  and  dismal 
subjects  of  my  lonely  meditations.  I  did  the  poor  girl  wrong. 
That  night  she  neither  sung  nor  danced;  and  when  I  saw  her 
again,  I  was  shocked  at  the  visible  alteration  for  the  worse 
which  her  appearance  exhibited  She  was  now  grown  thin, 
almost  to  meagreness;  her  cheeks  were  very  wan,  her  lips 
whitened,  and  her  beauty  greatly  faded  in  coasequence  of  her 
suffering  health. 

Yet,  will  it  be  believed  that,  in  that  interview,  though  such 
was  her  obvious  condition,  my  perverse  spirit  found  the  Ian- 
guage  of  complaint  and  suspicion  more  easy  than  that  of  devo- 


62      .  CONFESSION,  OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

tion  and  tenderness.  I  know  that  it  would  be  easy,  and  feel 
that  it  would  be  natural,  to  account  for  and  to  excuse  this  bru- 
tality, by  a  reference  to  those  provocations  which  I  had  re- 
ceived from  her  father.  A  warm  temper,  ardent  and  glowing, 
it  is  very  safe  to  imagine,  must  reasonably  become  soured  and 
perverse  by  bad  treatment  and  continual  injury.  But  this  for 
me  was  no  excuse.  Julia  was  a  victim  also  of  the  same  treat- 
ment, and  in  far  greater  degree  than  myself,  as  she  was  far  less 
able  to  endure  it.  Mine,  however,  was  the  perverseness  of  im- 
petuous blood  —  unrestrained,  unchecked  —  having  a  fearful 
will,  an  impetuous  energy,  and,  gradually,  with  success  and 
power,  swelling  to  the  assertion  of  its  own  unqualified  dominion 
— the  despotism  of  the  blind  heart. 

Julia  bore  my  reproaches  until  I  was  ashamed  of  them.  Her 
submission  stung  me,  and  I  loved  then  too  ardently  not  to  ar- 
rive in  time  at  justice,  and  to  make  atonement.  Would  1 
had  made  it  sooner !  When  I  had  finished  all  my  reproaches 
and  complainings,  she  answered  all  by  telling  me  that  the  affair 
with  young  Roberts  had  been  just  closed,  and  she  hoped  finally, 
by  her  unqualified  rejection  of  his  suit,  even  though  backed  by 
all  her  father's  solicitations,  complaints,  nay,  threats  and  anger. 
How  ungenerous  and  unmanly,  after  this  statement  had  been 
made,  appeared  all  the  bitter  chidings  in  which  I  had  indulged  ! 
I  need  not  say  what  efforts  I  made  to  atone  for  my  precipita- 
tion and  injustice  ;  and  how  easily  I  found  forgiveness  from  one 
who  knew  not  how  to  harbor  unkindness  —  and  if  she  even  had 
the  feeling  in  her  bosom,  entertained  it  as  one  entertains  his 
deadliest  foo,  and  expelled  it  as  soon  as  its  real  character  was 
discovered- 


TEMPTATION 


CHAPTER   VII. 

TEMPTATION. 

THUS  stood  the  affair  between  my  fair  cousin  and  myself-— 
a  condition  of  things  seriously  and  equally  affecting  her  health 
and  my  temper — when  an  explosion  took  place,  of  a  nature 
calculated  to  humble  my  uncle  and  myself,  if  not  in  equal  de- 
gree, or  to  the  same  attitude,  at  least  to  a  most  mortifying  ex- 
tent in  both  cases.  I  have  not  stated  before  —  indeed,  it  was 
not  until  the  affair  which  I  am  now  about  to  relate  had  actually 
exploded,  that  I  was  made  acquainted  with  any  of  the  facts 
which  produced  it  —  that,  prior'  to  my  father's  death,  there  had 
been  some  large  business  connections  between  himself  and  my 
uncle.  In  those  days  secret  connections  in  business,  however 
dangerous  they  might  be  in  social,  and  more  than  equivocal  in 
moral  respects,  were  considered  among  the  legitimate  practices 
of  tradesmen.  What  was  the  particular  sort  of  relations  exist- 
ing between 'my  father  and  uncle,  I  am  not  now  prepared  to 
state,  nor  is  it  absolutely  necessary  to  my  narrative.  It  io 
enough  for  me  to  say  that  an  exposure  of  them  took  place,  in 
part,  in  consequence  of  some  discoveries  made  by  my  fatherV 
unsatisfied  creditors,  by  which  the  obscure  transactions  of  thirty 
years  were  brought  to  light,  or  required  to  be  brought  to  light  ; 
and  in  the  development  of  which,  the  fair  business  fame  of  my 
uncle  was  likely  to  be  involved  in  a  very  serious  degree  —  not 
to  speak  of  the  inevitable  effects  upon  his  resources  of  a  discov- 
ery and  proof  of  fraudulent  concealment.  The  reputation  of 
my  father  must  have  suffered  seriously,  had  it  not  been  gener- 
ally known  that  he  left  nothing  —  a  fact  beyond  dispute  from 
the  history  of  my  own  career,  in  which  neither  goods  nor  chat- 
tels, lands  nor  money,  were  suffered  to  enure  to  my  advantage, 


t)4  CONFESSION,    Oil   THE   BLIND    HEART. 

The  business  was  brought  to  me.  The  merchant  who  brougnt 
it,  and  who  had  been  busy  for  some  years  in  tracing  out  the 
testimony,  so  far  as  it  could  be  procured,  gave  me  to  understand 
that  he  had  determined  to  place  it  in  my  hands  for  two  reasons  : 
firstly,  to  enable  me  to  release  the  memory  of  my  father  from 
the  imputation  —  under  any  circumstances  discreditable  —  of 
bankruptcy,  by  compelling  my  uncle  to  disgorge  the  sums 
which  he  had  appropriated,  and  which,  as  was  alleged,  would 
satisfy  all  my  father's  creditors ;  and,  secondly,  to  give  me  an 
opportunity  of  revenging  my  own  wrongs  upon  one,  of  whose 
course  of  conduct  toward  me  the  populace  had  already  seep 
enough,  during  the  last  election,  to  have  a  tolerably  correct 
idea. 

I  examined  the  papers,  thanked  my  client  for  his  friendly 
intentions,  but  declined  taking  charge  of  the  case  for  two  other 
reasons.  My  relations  to  the  dead  and  to  the  living  were  either 
of  them  sufficient  reasons  for  this  determination,  I  communi- 
cated the  grounds  of  action,  in  a  respectful  letter,  to  my  uncle, 
and  soon  discovered,  by  the  alarm  which  he  displayed  in  con- 
sequence, that  the  cause  of  the  complaint  was  in  all  probability 
good.  The  case  belonged  to  the  equity  jurisdiction,  and  the 
relator  soon  filed  his  bill. 

My  uncle's  tribulation  may  be  conjectured  from  the  fact  that 
he  called  upon  me,  and  seemed  anxious  enough  to  bury  the 
hatchet.  He  wished  me  to  take  part  in  the  proceedings  —  in- 
sisted, somewhat  earnestly,  and  strove  very  hard  to  impress  me 
the  conviction  that  my  father's  memory  demanded  that  I 
devote  myself  to  the  task  of  meeting  and  confounding 
*Jae  creditor  who  thus,  as  it  were,  had  set  to  work  to  rake  up 
the  ashes  of  the  dead ;  but  I  answered  all  this  very  briefly  and 
Tery  dryly  : — 

"If  my  father  has  participated  in  this  fraud,  he  has  reaped 
none  of  its  pleasant  fruits.  He  lived  poor,  and  died  poor.  The 
public  know  that ;  and  it  will  be  difficult  to  persuade  them,  with 
a  due  knowledge  of  these  facts,  that  he  deliberately  perpetrated 
such  unprofitable  villany.  Besid.es,  sir,  you  do  not  seem  to  re- 
member that,  if  the  claim  of  Banks,  Tressell,  &  Sons,  is  good, 
it  relieves  my  father's  memory  of  the  only  imputation  that  now 
lies  against  it — that  of  being  a  bankrupt." 


TEMPTATION.  65 

"Ay!"  he  cried  hoarsely,  "but  it  makes  Hie  one  —  me,  yonr 
uncle." 

"And  what  reason,  sir,  have  I  to  remember  or  to  heed  thig 
relationship  ?"  I  demanded  sternly,  with  a  glance  beneath  which 
he  quailed. 

"  True,  true,  Edward,  your  reproach  is  a  just  one.  I  have 
not  been  the  friend  I  should  have  been ;  but — let  us  be  friends, 
now,  and  hereafter  —  we  must  be  friends.  Mrs.  Clifford  is  very 
anxious  that  it  should  be  so  —  and — and  —  Edward,"  solemnly, 
"you  must  help  me  out  of  this  business.  You  must,  by  Hear- 
on,  you  must — if  you  would  not  have  me  blow  my  brains  out !" 

The  man  was  giving  true  utterance  to  his  misery — the  fruU 
of  those  pregnant  fears  which  filled  his  mind. 

"I  would  do  for  you,  six,  whatever  is  proper  for  me  to  d  ,  but 
can  not  meddle  in  this  unless  you  are  prepared  to  make  restitu- 
tion, which  I  should  judge  to  be  your  best  course." 

"  How  can  you  advise  me  to  beggar  my  child  1  This  dUim, 
if  recognised,  will  sweep  everything.  The  interest  alone  is  a 
fortune.  I  can  not  think  of  allowing  it.  I  would  rather  die  !" 

"  This  is  mere  madness,  Mr.  Clifford ;  your  death  would  noi 
lessen  the  difficulty.  Hear  me,  sir,  and  face  the  matter  man- 
fully. You  must  do  justice.  If  what  I  understand  be  true, 
you  have  most  unfortunately  suffered  yourself  to  be  blinded  to 
the  dishonor  of  the  act  which  you  have  committed ;  you  have 
appropriated  wealth  which  did  not  belong  to  you,  and,  in  thus 
doing,  you  have  subjected  the  memory  of  my  father  to  the  re- 
proach of  injustice  which  he  did  not  deserve.  I  will  not  add 
the  reproach  which  I  might  with  justice  add,  that,  in  thus 
wronging  the  father's  memory,  and  making  it  cover  your  own 
improper  gains,  you  have  suffered  his  son  to  want  those  neces- 
saries of  education  and  sustenance,  which — " 

"  Say  no  more,  Edward,  and  it  shall  all  be  amended.  Listen 
to  me  now;  but  stay  —  close  that  door  for  a  moment — there! 
— Now,  look  you." 

And,  having  taken  these  precautionary  steps,  the  infatuated 
man  proceeded  to  admit  the  dishonest  practices  of  which  he 
had  been  guilty.  His  object  in  making  the  confession,  how- 
ever, was  not  that  he  might  make  reparation.  Far  from  it.  It 
was  rather  to  save  from  the  clutch  of  his  creditors,  from  the 


35  CONFESSION,  OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

grasp  of  justice,  his  ill-gotten  possessions.  I  have  no  patience 
in  revealing  the  schemes  by  which  this  was  to  be  effected ;  but, 
as  a  preliminary,  I  was  to  be  made  the  proprietor  of  one  half 
of  the  sum  in  question,  and  the  possessor  of  his  daughter's  hand  ; 
in  return  for  which  I  was  simply  to  share  with  him  in  the  per- 
formance of  certain  secret  acts,  which,  without  rendering  his 
virtue  any  more  conspicuous,  would  have  most  effectually  eradi- 
cated all  of  mine. 

"  I  have  listened  to  you,  Mr.  Clifford,  and  with  great  diffi- 
culty. I  now  distinctly  decline  your  proposals.  Not  even  the 
bribe,  so  precious  in  my  sight,  as  that  which  you  have  tendered 
in  the  person  of  your  daughter,  has  power  to  tempt  me  into 
hesitation.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  you  in  this  matter. 
Restore  the  property  to  your  creditors." 

"But,  Edward,  you  have  not  heard ; — your  share  alone  will 
be  twenty  odd  thousand  dollars,  without  naming  the  interest !" 

"Mr.  Clifford,  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Doubly  sorry  that  you 
persist  in  seeing  this  thing  in  an  improper  light.  Even  were  I 
disposed  to  second  your  designs,  it  is  scarcely  possible,  sir,  that 
you  could  be  extricated.  The  discovery  of  those  papers,  and 
the  extreme  probability  that  Hansford,  the  partner  of  the  Eng- 
lish firm  of  Davis,  Pierce,  &  Hansford,  is  surviving,  and  can  be 
found,  makes  the  probabilities  strongly  against  you.  My  ad- 
vice to  you,  is,  that  you  make  a  merit  of  necessity ;  —  that  you 
endeavor  to  effect  a  compromise  before  the  affair  has  gone  too 
far.  The  creditors  will  make  some  concessions  sooner  than 
trust  the  uncertainties  of  a  legal  investigation,  and  whether  you 
lose  or  gain,  a  legal  investigation  is  what  you  should  particu- 
larly desire  to  avoid.  If  you  will  adopt  this  counsel,  I  will  act 
for  you  with  Banks  &  Tressel :  and  if  you  will  give  me  carte 
blanche,  I  think  I  can  persuade  them  to  a  private  arrangement 
by  which  they  will  receive  the  principal  in  liquidation  of  all  de- 
mands. This  may  be  considered  a  very  fair  basis  for  an  ar- 
rangement, since  the  results  of  the  speculation  could  only  ac- 
crue from  the  business  capacities  of  the  speculator,  and  did  not 
belong  to  a  fund  which  the  proprietor  had  resolved  not  to  ap- 
propriate, and  which  must  therefore,  have  been  entirely  un- 
productive. I  do  not  promise  you  that  they  will  accept,  but  it 
is  not  improbable.  They  are  men  of  business — they  need,  at 


TEMPTATION.  67 

this  moment,  particularly,  an  active  capital ;  and  have  had  too 
much  knowledge  of  the  doubts  and  delays  attending  a  pro- 
longed suit  in  equity,  not  to  listen  to  a  proposition  which  yields 
them  the  entire  principal  of  their  claim." 

I  need  not  repeat  the  arguments  and  entreaties  by  which  I 
succeeded  in  persuading  my  uncle  to  accede  to  the  only  ar- 
rangement which  could  possibly  have  rescued  him  from  the 
public  exposure  which  was  impending ;  but  he  did  consent,  and, 
armed  with  his  credentials,  I  proceeded  to  the  office  of  Banks 
&  Tressell,  without  loss  of  time. 

Though  resolved,  if  I  could  effect  the  matter,  that  my  uncle 
should  liquidate  their  claim  to  the  uttermost  farthing  which  they 
required,  it  was  my  duty  to  make  the  best  bargain  which  I 
could,  in  reference  to  his  unfortunate  family.  Accordingly, 
without  suffering  them  to  know  that  I  had  carte  blanche,  I  simply 
communicated  to  them  my  wish  to  have  the  matter  arranged 
without  public  investigation — that  I  was  persuaded  from  a 
hasty  review  which  I  had  given  to  the  case,  that  there  were 
good  grounds  for  action; — but,  at  the  same  time,  I  dwelt  upon 
the  casualties  of  such  a  course  —  the  possibility  that  the  chief 
living  witness  —  if  he  were  living — might  not  be  found,  or 
might  not  survive  long  enough  —  as  he  was  reputed  to  be  very 
old  —  for  the  purposes  of  examination  before  the  commission  j 
—  the  long  delays  which  belonged  to  a  litigated  suit,  in  which 
the  details  of  a  mixed  foreign  and  domestic  business  of  so  many 
years  was  to  be  raked  up,  reviewed  and  explained ;  and  the 
farther  chances,  in  the  event  of  final  success,  of  the  property 
of  the  debtor  being  so  covered,  concealed,  or  made  away  with, 
as  to  baffle  at  last  all  the  industry  and  labors  of  the  creditor. 

The  merchants  were  men  of  good  sense,  and  estimated  the 
proverb  —  "a  bird  in  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush"  —  at  its 
true  value.  It  did  not  require  much  argument  to  persuade 
them  to  receive  a  sum  of  over  forty  thousand  dollars,  and  give  a 
full  discharge  to  the  defendant ;  and  I  flattered  myself  that  the 
matter  was  all  satisfactorily  arranged,  and  had  just  taken  a  seat 
at  my  table  to  write  to  Mr.  Clifford  to  this  effect,  when,  to  my 
horror,  I  receive  a  note  from  that  gentleman,  informing  me  of 
his  resolve  to  join  issue  with  the  claimants,  and  "  maintain  his 
rights  (?)  to  the  last  moment."  He  thanked  me,  in  very  cold. 


68  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

consequential  style,  for  my  "friendly  efforts" —  the  "words  itali- 
cised, as  I  have  now  written  it ;  —  but  concluded  with  informing 
me  that  he  had  taken  the  opinion  of  older  counsel,  which,  though 
it  might  be  Isss  correct  than  mine,  was,  perhaps,  more  full  of 
promise  for  his  interests. 

This  note  justified  me  in  calling  upon  the  unfortunate  gentle- 
man. It  is  true  I  had  not  committed  him  to  Banks  &  Tressell 
—  the  suggestions  which  I  had  made  for  the  arrangement  were 
all  proposed  as  a  something  which  I  might  be  able  to  bring 
about  in  a  future  conference  with  him — but  I  was  too  anxious 
to  save  him  from  his  lamentable  folly — from  that  miserable 
love  of  money,  which,  overreaching  itself  in  its  blindness,  as 
does  every  passion — was  not  only  about  to  deliver  him  to  shame 
but  to  destitution  also. 

I  found  him  in  Mrs.  Clifford's  presence.  That  simple  and 
silly  woman  had  evidently  been  made  privy  to  the  whole  trans- 
action, so  far  as  my  arguments  had  been  connected  with  it ;  — 
fora//  the  truth  is  not  often  to  be  got  out  of  the  man  who  means 
or  has  perpetrated  a  dishonesty.  She  had  been  alarmed  at  the 
immense  loss  of  money,  and  consequently  of  importance,  with 
which  the  family  was  threatened ;  and  without  looking  into,  or 
being  able  to  comprehend  the  facts  as  they  stood,  she  had  taken 
ground  against  any  measure  which  should  involve  such  a  sacri- 
fice. Her  influence  over  the  weak  man  beside  her,  was  never 
so  clear  to  me  as  now ;  and  in  learning  to  despise  his  character 
more  than  -jver,  I  discovered,  at  the  same  time,  the  true  source 
of  many  of  his  errors  and  much  of  his  misconduct.  She  did 
not  often  suffer  him  to  reply  for  himself — yielded  me  the  ul- 
timatum from  her  own  lips;  and  condescended  to  assure  me 
that  she  could  only  ascribe  the  advice  which  I  had  given  to  her 
husband,  to  the  hostile  disposition  which  I  had  always  enter- 
tained for  herself  and  family.  That  I  was  "  a  wolf  in  sheep's 
clothing,  she  had  long  since  been  able  to  see,  though  all  others 
inhappily  seemed  blind." 

Here  she  scowled  at  her  husband,  who  contented  himself  with 
talking  to  and  fro,  playing  with  his  coatskirts,  and  feeling,  no 
doubt,  a  portion  of  the  shame  which  his  miserable  bondage  to 
this  silly  woman  necessarily  incurred. 

<6Mr.  Clifford  has  got  a  lawyer  who  can  do  for  him  what  it 


TEMPTATION.  69 

seems  you  can  not,"  was  her  additional  observation.  "  He 
promises  to  get  him  to  dry  land,  and  save  him  without  so  much 
as  wetting  his  shoes,  though  his  own  blood  relations,  who  are 
thought  so  smart,  can  not,  it  appears,  do  anything." 

Of  course  I  could  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  worthy  lady, 
but  my  expostulations  were  freely  urged  to  Mr.  Clifford. 

"  You,  at  least,"  said  I,  "  should  know  the  risks  which  you 
incur  by  this  obstinacy.  Mrs.  Clifford  can  not  be  expected  to 
know ;  and  I  now  warn  you,  sir,  that  the  case  of  Banks  & 
Tressell  is  a  very  strong  one,  very  well  arranged,  and  so  admi- 
rably hung  together,  in  its  several  links  of  testimony,  that, 
even  the  absence  of  old  Hansford  (the  chief  witness),  should  his 
answers  never  be  obtained,  would  scarcely  impair  the  integrity 
of  the  evidence.  In  a  purely  moral  point  of  view,  nothing  can 
be  more  complete  than  it  is  now." 

"  Well,  and  who  would  it  convict,  Mr.  Edward  Clifford  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  inveterate  lady,  anticipating  her  husband's  answer 
with  accustomed  interference ;  "  who  would  it  convict,  if  not 
your  own  father  ?  It  was  as  much  his  business  as  my  hus- 
band's ;  and  if  there's  any  shame,  I'm  sure  his  memory  and  his 
son  will  have  to  bear  their  share  of  it ;  and  this  makes  it  so 
much  more  wonderful  to  me  that  you  should  take  sides  against 
Mr.  Clifford,  instead  of  standing  up  in  his  defence." 

"  I  would  save  him,  madam,  if  you  and  he  would  let  me,"  I  ex- 
claimed with  some  indignation.  "  Your  reference  to  my  father's 
share  in  this  transaction  does  not  affect  me,  as  it  is  very  evident 
that  you  are  not  altogether  acquainted  with  the  true  part  which 
he  had  in  it.  He  had  all  the  risk,  all  the  loss,  all  the  blame  — 
and  your  husband  all  the  profit,  all  the  importance.  He  lived 
poor,  and  died  so ;  without  a  knowledge  of  those  profitable  re- 
sults to  his  brother  of  which  the  latter  has  made  his  own  avails 
by  leaving  my  father's  memory  to  aspersion  which  he  did  not 
deserve,  and  his  son  to  destitution  and  reproach  which  .he 
merited  as  little.  My  father's  memory  is  liable  to  no  reproach 
when  every  creditor  knows  that  he  died  in  a  state  of  poverty, 
in  which  his  only  son  has  ever  lived.  Neither  he  nor  I  ever 
shared  any  of  the  pleasant  fruits,  for  which  we  are  yet  to  be 
made  accountable." 

"And  whose  fault  was  it  that  you  didn't  get  your  share 


70 

I'm  sure  Mr.  Clifford  made  you  as  handsome  an  offer  yesterday 
as  any  man  could  desire.  Didn't  he  offer  you  half?  But  I 
suppose  nothing  short  of  the  whole  would  satisfy  so  ambitious 
a  person." 

"Neither  the  half  nor  the  whole  will  serve  me,  madam,  in 
such  a  business.  My  respect  for  your  husband  and  his  family 
would,  of  itself,  have  been  sufficient  to  prevent  my  acceptance 
of  his  offer." 

"But  there  was  Julia,  too,  Edward  !"  said  Mr.  Clifford,  ap- 
proaching me  with  a  most  insinuating  smile. 

"  It  is  not  yet  too  late,"  said  Mrs.  Clifford,  unbending  a  little. 
"  Take  the  offer  of  Mr.  Clifford,  Edward,  and  be  one  of  us ;  and 
then  this  ugly  business " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Edward,  even  now,  though  I  have  spoken 
with  young  Perkins  about  the  affair,  and  he  tells  me  there's 
nothing  so  much  to  be  afraid  of,  yet,  for  the  look  of  the  thing, 
I'd  rather  that  you  should  be  seen  acting  in  the  business.  As 
it's  so  well  known  that  your  father  had  nothing,  and  you  noth- 
ing, it'll  then  be  easy  for  the  people  to  believe  that  nothing  was 
the  gain  of  any  of  us;  and — and " 

"Young  Perkins  may  think  and  say  what  he  pleases,  and 
you  are  yourself  capable  of  judging  how  much  respect  you 
may  pay  to  his  opinion.  Mine,  however,  remains  unchanged. 
You  will  have  to  pay  this  money — nay,  this  necessity  will  not 
come  alone.  The  development  of  all  the  particulars  connected 
with  the  transaction  will  disgrace  you  for  ever,  and  drive  you 
from  the  community.  Even  were  I  to  take  part  with  you,  I  do 
not  see  that  it  would  change  the  aspect  of  affairs.  So  far  from 
your  sharing  with  me  the  reputation  of  being  profitless  in  the 
affair,  the  public  would  more  naturally  suspect  that  I  had  shared 
with  you — now,  if  not  before  —  and  the  whole  amount  involved 
would  not  seduce  me  to  incur  this  imputation." 
•  "But  my  daughter — Julia " 

"  Do  not  speak  of  her  in  this  connection,  I  implore  you,  Mr. 
Clifford.  Let  her  name  remain  pure,  un contaminated  by  any' 
considerations,  whether  of  mere  gain  or  of  the  fraud  which  the 
gain  is  supposed  to  involve.  Freely  would  I  give  the  sum  in 
question,  were  it  mine,  and  all  the  wealth  besides  that  I  ever 
expect  to  acquire,  to  make  Julia  Clifford  my  wife  ;  —  but  I  can 


TEMPTATION.  71 

not  suffer  myself,  in  sucli  a  case  as  this,  to  accept  her  as  a  bribe, 
and  to  sanction  crime.  Nay,  I  am  sure  that  she  too  would  be 
the  first  to  object." 

"  And  so  you  really  refuse  ?  Well,  the  world's  coming  to  a 
pretty  pass.  But  I  told  Mr.  Clifford,  months  ago,  that  you  had 
quite  forgot  yourself,  ever  since  you  had  grown  so  great  with 
the  Eclgertons,  and  the  Blakes,  and  Fortescues,  and  all  them 
high-headed  people.  But  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Edward  Clifford,  my 
daughter  needn't  go  a-begging  to  any  man ;  and  as  for  this  busi- 
ness, whatever  you  may  say  against  young  Perkins,  I'll  take 
his  opinion  of  the  law  against  that  of  any  other  young  lawyer 
in  the  country.  He's  as  good  as  the  best,  I'm  thinking." 

"  Your  opinion  is  your  own,  Mrs.  Clifford,  but  I  beg  to  set 
you  right  on  the  subject  of  mine.  I  did  not  say  anything 
against  Mr.  Perkins." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I'm  sure  you  did.  You  said  he 
was  nothing  of  a  lawyer,  and  something  more." 

Was  there  ever  a  more  perverse  and  evil  and  silly  woman ! 
I  contented  myself  with  assuring  her  that  she  was  mistaken 
and  had  very  much  misunderstood  me  —  took  pains  to  repeat 
what  I  had  really  said,  and  then  cut  short  an  interview  that  had 
been  painful  and  humbling  to  me  on  many  grounds.  I  left  the 
happy  pair  tete-a-tete,  in  their  princely  parlor  together,  little 
fancying  that  there  was  another  argument  which  had  been 
prepared  to  overthrow  my  feeble  virtue.  But  all  this  had  been 
arranged  by  the  small  cunning  of  this  really  witless  couple.  I 
was  left  to  find  my  way  down  stairs  as  I  might ;  and  just  when 
I  was  about  to  leave  the  dwelling — vexed  to  the  heart  at  the 
desperate  stolidity  of  the  miserable  man,  whom  avarice  and 
weakness  were  about  to  expose  to  a  loss  which  might  be  averted 
in  part,  and  an  exposure  to  infamy  which  might  wholly  be 
avoided  —  I  was  encountered  by  the  attenuated  form  and  wan 
countenance  of  his  suffering  but  still  lovely  daughter. 


72  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LOVE    FINDS    NO   SMOOTH   WATER    IN   THE   SEA    OF    LAW 

"JULIA!"  I  exclaimed,  with  a  start  which  betrayed,  I  am 
sure,  quite  as  much  surprise  as  pleasure.  My  mood  was 
singularly  inflexible.  My  character  was  not  easily  shaken, 
and,  once  wrought  upon  by  any  leading  influence,  my  mind 
preserved  the  tone  which  it  acquired  beneath  it,  long  after  the 
cause  of  provocation  had  been  withdrawn.  This  earnestness. of 
character — amounting  to  intensity  —  gave  me  an  habitual  stern- 
ness of  look  and  expression,  and  I  found  it  hard  to  acquire,  of 
a  sudden,  that  command  of  muscle  which  would  permit  me  to 
mould  the  stubborn  lineaments,  at  pleasure,  to  suit  the  moment. 
Not  even  where  my  heart  was  most  deeply  interested — thus 
aroused  —  could  I  look  the  feelings  of  the  lover,  which,  never- 
theless, were  most  truly  the  predominant  ones  within  my  bosom. 

"  Julia,"  I  exclaimed,  "  I  did  not  think  to  see  you." 

"  Ah,  Edward,  did  you  wish  it  ?"  she  replied  in  very  mourn- 
ful accents,  gently  reproachful,  as  she  suffered  me  to  take  her 
hand  in  mine,  and  lead  her  back  to  the  parlor  in  the  basement 
story.  I  seated  her  upon  the  sofa,  and  took  a  place  at  her 
side. 

"  Why  should  I  not  wish  to  see  you,  Julia  ?  What  should 
lead  you  to  fancy  now  that  I  could  wish  otherwise  ?" 

"  Alas  !"  she  replied,  "  I  know  not  what  to  think — I  scarcely 
know  what  I  say.  I  am  very  miserable.  What  is  this  they 
tell  me?  Can  it  be  true,  Edward,  that  you  are  acting  against 
my  father  —  that  you  are  trying  to  bring  him  to  shame  and 
poverty  1" 

I  released  her  hand.     I  fixed  my  eyes  keenly  upon  hers. 

"  Julia,  you  have  your  instructions  what  to  say.  You  are 
sent  here  for  this.  They  have  set  you  in  waiting  to  meet  me 


LOVE  AND  LAW.  73 

liere,  and  speak  things  which  you  do  not  understand,  and  assert 
things  which  I  know  you  can  not  believe." 

"  Edward,  I  believe  you  /"  she  exclaimed  with  emphasis,  but 
with  downcast  eyes ;  "  but  it  does  not  matter  whether  I  was 
sent  here,  or  sought  you  of  my  own  free  will.  They  tell  mo 
other  things — there  is  more — but  I  have  not  the  heart  to  say 
it,  and  it  needs  not  much." 

"  If  you  believe  me,  Julia,  it  certainly  does  not  need  that 
you  should  repeat  to  me  what  is  said  of  me  by  enemies,  equally 
unjust  to  me,  and  hostile  to  themselves.  Yet  I  can  readily  con- 
jecture some  things  which  they  have  told  you.  Did  they  not 
tell  you  that  your  hand  had  been  proffered  me,  and  that  I  had 
refused  it  ?" 

She  hung  her  head  in  silence. 

"  You  do  not  answer." 

'  Spare  me ;  ask  me  not." 

"  Nay,  tell  me,  Julia,  that  I  may  see  how  far  you  hold  me 
worthy  of  your  love,  your  confidence.  Speak  to  me — have 
they  not  told  you  some  such  story  ?" 

"  Something  of  this ;  but  I  did  not  heed  it,  Edward." 

"  Julia  —  nay  !  —  did  you  not?" 

"And  if  I  did,  Edward—" 

"  It  surely  was  not  to  believe  it  ?" 

"No!  no!  no!  I  had  no  fears  of  you — have  none,  dear 
Edward !  I  knew  that  it  was  not,  could  not  be  true." 

"Julia,  it  was  true  !" 

"Ah!" 

"  True,  indeed  !  There  was  more  truth  in  that  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  story.  Nay,  more — had  they  told  you  all  the 
truth;  dearest  Julia,  that  part,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  would 
liave  given  you  less  pain  than  pleasure." 

"  How  !     Can  it  be  so  ?" 

fc  Your  hand  was  proffered  me  by  your  father,  and  I  refused 
it.  Nay,  look  not  from  me,  dearest  —  fear  not  for  my  affection 
— fear  nothing.  I  should  have  no  fear  that  you  could  suppose 
me  false  to  you,  though  the  whole  world  should  come  and  tell 
you  so.  True  love  is  always  secured  by  a  just  confidence  in 
the  beloved  object ;  and,  without  this  confidence,  the  whole  life 
is  a  series  of  long  doubts,  struggles,  griefs,  and  apprehensions, 


74  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

which  break  down  the  strength,  and  lay  the  spirit  in  the  dust. 
I  will  now  tell  you,  in  few  words,  what  is  the  relation  in  which 
I  stand  to  your  father  and  his  family.  He,  many  years  ago, 
committed  an  error  in  business,  which  the  laws  distinguish  by 
a  harsher  name.  By  this  error  he  became  rich.  Until  recent- 
ly, the  proofs  of  this  error  were  unknown.  They  have  lately 
been  discovered  by  certain  claimants,  who  are  demanding  repa- 
ration. In  the  difficulty  of  your  father,  he  came  to  me.  I  ex- 
amined the  business,  and  have  given  it  as  my  opinion  that  he 
should  stifle  the  legal  process  by  endeavoring  to  make  a  private 
arrangement  with  the  creditors." 

"  Could  he  do  this  ?" 

"  He  could.  The  creditors  were  willing,  and  at  first  he  con- 
sented that  I  should  arrange  it  with  them.  He  now  rejects  the 
arrangement." 

"  But  why  ?" 

"  Because  it  invoivas  Jie  surrender  of  the  entire  amount  of 
property  which  they  claim  —  a  sum  of  forty  thousand  dollars." 

"But,  dear  Edward,  is  it  due? — does  my  father  owe  this 
money?  If  he  does,  surely  he  can  not  refuse.  Perhaps  he 
thinks  that  he  owes  nothing." 

"  Nay,  Julia,  unhappily  he  knows  it,  and  the  offer  of  your 
hand,  and  half  of  the  sum  mentioned,  was  made  to  me,  on  the 
express  condition  that  I  should  exert  my  influence  as  a  man, 
and  my  ingenuity  as  a  lawyer,  in  baffling  the  creditors  and  sti- 
fling the  claim." 

The  poor  girl  was  silent  and  hung  her  head,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  carpet,  and  the  big  tears  slowly  gathering,  dropping 
from  them,  ono  by  one.  Meanwhile,  I  explained,  as  tenderly 
as  JL  could,  the  evil  consequences  which  threatened  Mr.  Clifford 
in  consequence  of  his  contumacy. 

"Alas!"  she  exclaimed,  "it  is  not  his  fault.  He  would  be 
wiLing  —  I  heard  him  say  as  much  last  night — but  mother — 
she  will  not  consent.  She  refused  positively  the  moment  father 
said  ic,  would  be  necessary  to  sell  out,  and  move  to  a  cheaper 
iiouse  Oh,  Edward,  is  there  no  way  that  you  can  save  us  ? 
Save  my  father  from  shame,  though  he  gives  up  all  the  money.* 

"  Would  I  not  do  this,  Julia  ?  Nay,  were  I  owner  of  the  necas- 
Bary  amount  myself,  believe  nie,  it  should  not  be  withheld." 


LOVE   AND  LAW.  7ft 

"  I  do  believe  you,  Edward  ;  but"  —  and  here  her  voice  funk 
to  a  whisper  —  "you  must  try  again,  try  again  and  again — for 
I  think  that  father  knows  the  danger,  though  mother  does  not; 
and  I  think  —  I  hope — he  will  be  firm  enough,  when  you  press 
him,  and  warn  him  of  the  danger,  to  do  as  you  wish  him." 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  Julia.     Your  mother — " 

"Do  not  fear;  hope — hope  all,  dear  Edward;  for,  to  confess 
to  you,  I  know  that  they  are  anxious  to  have  your  support — 
they  said  as  much.  Nay,  why  should  I  hide  anything  from 
you?  They  sent  me  here  to  see  —  to  speak  with  you,  and — " 

"  To  see  what  your  charms  could  do  to  persuade  me  to  be  a 
villain.  Julia!  Julia!  did  you  think  to  do  this — to  have  me 
be  the  thing  which  they  would  make  me  1" 

"No!  no!  —  Heaven  forbid,  dear  Edward,  that  you  should 
fancy  that  any  such  desire  had  a  place,  even  for  a  moment,  in 
my  mind.  No !  I  knew  not  that  the  case  involved  any  but 
mere  money  considerations.  I  knew  not  that — " 

"  Enough  !  Say  no  more,  Julia  !  I  do  not  think  that  you 
would  counsel  me  to  my  own  shame." 

"  No  !  no  !  You  do  me  only  justice.  But,  Edward,  you  will 
save  my  father  !  You  will  try  —  you  will  see  him  again — " 

"  What !  to  suffer  again  the  open  scorn,  the  declared  doubts 
of  my  friendship  and  integrity,  which  is  the  constant  language 
of  your  mother  ?  Can  it  be  that  you  would  desire  that  I  should 
do  this — nay,  seek  it?" 

"For  my  poor  father's  sake !"  she  cried,  gaspingly. 

But  I  shook  my  head  sternly. 

"  For  mine,  then — for  mine  !  for  mine  !" 

She  threw  herself  into  my  arms,  and  clung  to  me  until  I 
promised  all  that  she  required.  And  as  I  promised  her,  so  I 
strove  with  her  father.  I  used  every  argument,  resorted  to  ev- 
ery mode  of  persuasion,  but  all  was  of  no  avail.  Mr.  Clifford 
was  under  the  rigid,  the  iron  government  of  his  fate !  His 
wife  was  one  of  those  miserably  silly  women — born,  according 
to  lago  — 

"  To  suckle  fools  and  chronicle  small  beer"— 

who,  raised  to  the   sudden  control  of  unexpected  wealth,  be- 
comes insane  upon  it.  and  is  blind,  deaf,  and  dumb,  to  all  coun- 


76  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEAUT. 

sel  or  reason  which  suggests  the  possibility  of  its  loss.  From 
the  very  moment  when  Mr.  Clifford  spoke  of  selling  out  house, 
horses,  and  carriage,  as  the  inevitable  result  which  must  follow 
his  adoption  of  my  recommendation,  she  declared  herself  against 
it  at  all  hazards,  particularly  when  her  husband  assured  her  that 
"  the  glorious  uncertainties  of  the  law"  afforded  a  possibility  of 
his  escape  with  less  loss.  The  loss  of  money  was,  with  her,  the 
item  of  most  consideration ;  her  mind  was  totally  insensible  to 
that  of  reputation.  She  was  willing  to  make  this  compromise 
with  me,  as  a  sort  of  alternative,  for,  in  that  case,  there  would 
fee  no  diminution  of  attendance  and  expense — no  loss  of  rank 
and  equipage.  We  should  all  live  together  —  how  harmoni- 
ously, one  may  imagine — but  the  grandeur  and  the  state  would 
still  be  intact  and  unimpaired.  Even  for  this,  however,  she 
was  not  prepared,  when  she  discovered  that  there  was  no  cer- 
tainty that  my  alliance  would  bring  immunity  to  her  husband, 
flow  this  notion  got  even  partially  into  his  head,  I  know  not ; 
unless  in  consequence  of  a  growing  imbecility  of  intellect,  which 
in  a  short  time  after  betrayed  itself  more  strikingly.  But  of 
this  in  its  own  place. 

My  attempts  to  convince  my  unfortunate  uncle  were  all  ren- 
dered unavailing,  and  shown  to  be  so  to  Julia  herself  in  a  very 
short  time  afterward.  The  insolence  of  Mrs.  Clifford,  when  I 
did  seek  an  interview  with  her  husband,  was  so  offensive  and 
unqualified,  that  Julia  herself,  with  a  degree  of  indignation 
which  she  could  not  entirely  suppress,  begged  me  to  quit  the 
house,  and  relieve  myself  from  such  undeserved  insult  and 
abuse.  I  did  so,  but  with  no  unfriendly  wishes  for  the  wretch- 
ed woman  who  presided  over  its  destinies,  and  the  no  less 
wretched  husband  whom  she  helped  to  make  so ;  and  my  place 
as  consulting  friend  and  counsellor  was  soon  supplied  by  Mr. 
Perkins  —  one  of  those  young  barristers,  to  be  found  in  every 
community,  who  regard  the  "  penny  fee"  as  the  sine  qua  non, 
and  oboy  implicitly  the  injunction  of  the  scoundrel  in  the  play 
"Make  money — honestly  if  you  can,  but — make  money!" 
He  was  one  of  those  creatures  who  set  people  at  loggerheads, 
goad  foolish  and  petulant  clients  into  lawsuits,  stir  up  commo- 
tions in  little  sets,  and  invariably  comfort  the  suit-bringer  with 
the  most  satisfactory  assurances  of  success.  Tt  was  the  confi- 


LOVE   AND   LAW.  77 

dent  assurances  of  this  person  which  had  determined  Mr.  Clif- 
ford— his  wife  rather — to  resist  to  the  last  the  suit  in  question. 
Through  the  sheer  force  of  impudence,  this  man  had  obtained  a 
tolerable  share  of  practice.  His  clients,  as  may  be  supposed, 
lay  chiefly  among  such  persons  as,  having  no  power  or  standard 
for  judging,  necessarily  look  upon  him  who  is  most  bold  and 
pushing  as  the  most  able  and  trustworthy.  The  bullies  of  the 
law — and,  unhappily,  tne  profession  has  quite  too  many — are 
very  commanding  persons  among  the  multitude.  Mr.  Clifford 
knew  this  fellow's  mental  reputation  very  well,  and  was  not 
deceived  by  the  confidence  of  his  assurances;  nay,  to  the  last, 
Le  showed  a  hankering  desire  to  give  me  the  entire  control  of 
the  subject ;  but  the  hostility  of  Mrs.  Clifford  overruled  his  more 
prulent  if  not  more  honorable  purposes ;  and,  as  he  was  com- 
pelled to  seek  a  lawyer,  the  questionable  moral  standing  of 
Perkins  decided  his  choice.  He  wished  one,  in  short,  to  do  a 
certain  piece  of  dirty  work ;  and,  as  if  in  anticipation  of  the 
future,  he  dreaded  to  unfold  the  case  to  any  of  the  veterans,  the 
old-time  gentlemen  and  worthies  of  the  bar.  I  proposed  this  to 
him.  I  offered  to  make  a  supposititious  relation  of  the  facts  for 
the  opinion  of  Mr.  Edgerton  and  others — nay,  pledged  myself 
to  procure  a  confidential  consultation — anything,  sooner  than 
that  he  should  resort  to  a  mode  of  extrication  which,  I  assured 
Lim,  would  only  the  more  deeply  involve  him  in  the  meshes  of 
disgrace  and  loss.  But  there  was  a  fatality  about  this  gentle- 
man— a  doom  that  would  not  be  baffled,  and  could  not  be 
stayed.  The  wilful  mind  always  precipitates  itself  down  the 
abyss ;  and,  whether  acting  by  his  own,  or  under  the  influence 
of  another's  judgment,  such  was,  most  certainly,  the  case  with 
him.  He  was  not  to  be  saved.  Mr.  Perkins  was  regularly  in- 
stalled as  his  defender — his  counsellor,  private  and  public — 
and  I  was  compelled,  though  with  humiliating  reluctance,  to 
admit  to  the  plaintiffs,  Banks  &  Tressell,  that  there  was  no 
longer  any  hope  of  compromise.  The  issue  on  which  hung 
equally  his  fortune  and  his  reputation  was  insanely  challenged 
by  my  uncle. 


78  CONFESSION.    OR   THE    BLIND   HEART. 


C  HAPTER    IX. 

DUELLO. 

BUT  my  share  in  the  troubles  of  this  affair  was  not  to  end, 
though  I  was  no  longer  my  uncle's  counsellor.  An  event  now 
took  place  which  gave  the  proceedings  a  new  and  not  less  un- 
pleasing.  aspect  than  they  had  worn  before.  Mrs.  Clifford,  it 
appears,  in  her  communications  to  her  husband's  lawyer,  did 
not  confine  herself  to  the  mere  business  of  the  lawsuit.  Her 
voluminous  discourse  involved  her  opinions  of  her  neighbors, 
friends,  and  relatives ;  and,  one  day,  a  few  weeks  after,  I  was 
suddenly  surprised  by  a  visit  from  a  gentleman — one  of  the 
members  of  the  bar  —  who  placed  a  letter  in  my  hands  from  Mr. 
Perkins.  I  read  this  billet  with  no  small  astonishment.  It 
briefly  stated  that  certain  reports  had  reached  his  ears,  that  I 
had  expressed  myself  contemptuously  of  his  abilities  and  char- 
acter, and  concluded  with  an  explicit  demand,  not  for  an  expla- 
nation, but  an  apology.  My  answer  was  immediate. 

"  You  will  do  me  the  favor  to  say,  Mr.  Carter,  that  Mr.  Per- 
kins has  been  misinformed.  I  never  uttered  anything  in  my 
life  which  could  disparage  either  his  moral  or  legal  reputation." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  Clifford,"  was  the  reply,  "  that  de- 
nial is  unnecessary,  and  can  not  be  received.  Mr.  Perkins  has 
his  information  from  the  lips  of  a  lady ;  and,  as  a  lady  is  not 
responsible,  she  can  not  be  allowed  to  err.  I  am  required,  sii 
to  insist  on  an  apology.  I  have  already  framed  it,  and  it 
only  needs  your  signature." 

He  drew  a  short,  folded  letter,  from  his  pocket,  and  placed  it 
before  me.  There  was  so  much  cool  impertinence  in  this  pro* 
ceeding,  and  in  the  fellow's  manner,  that  I  could  with  difficulty 
refrain  from  flinging  the  paper  in  his  face.  He  was  one  of  the 
little  and  vulgar  clique  of  which  Perkins  was  a  sort  of  centre 


DUELLO.  79 

The  whole  set  were  conscious  enough  of  the  low  estimate 
which  was  put  upon  them  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  bar.  Denied 
caste,  they  were  disposed  to  force  their  way  to  recognition  by 
the  bully's  process,  and  stung  by  some  recent  discouragements, 
Mr.  Perkins  was,  perhaps,  rather  glad  than  otherwise,  of  the 
silly,  and  no  less  malicious  than  silly,  tattle  of  Mrs.  Clifford  - 
for  I  did  not  doubt  that  the  gross  perversion  of  the  truth  which 
formed  the  basis  of  his  note,  had  originated  with  her,  which  en- 
abled him  to  single  out  a  victim,  who,  as  the  times  went,  had 
suddenly  risen  to  a  comparative  elevation  which  is  not  often 
accorded  to  a  young  beginner.  I  readily  conjectured  his  object 
from  his  character  and  that  of  the  man  he  sent.  My  own  na- 
ture was  passionate ;  and  the  rude  school  through  which  my 
boyhood  had  gone,  had  made  me  as  tenacious  of  my  position  as 
the  grave.  That  I  should  be  chafed  by  reptiles  such  as  these, 
stung  me  to  vexation ;  and  though  I  kept  from  any  violence 
of  action,  my  words  did  not  lack  of  it. 

"  Mr.  Perkins  is,  permit  me  to  say,  a  very  impertinent  fel 
low  ;  and,  if  you  please,  our  conference  will  cease  from  this 
moment." 

He  was  a  little  astounded — rose,  and  then  recovering  him- 
self, proceeded  to  reply  with  the  air  of  a  veteran  martinet. 

"  I  am  glad,  sir,  that  you  give  me  an  opportunity  of  proceed- 
ing with  this  business  without  delay.  My  friend,  Mr.  Perkins, 
prepared  me  for  some  such  answer.  Oblige  me,  sir,  by  reading 
this  paper."  He  handed  me  the  challenge  for  which  his  pre- 
liminaries had  prepared  me. 

"  Accepted,  sir ;  I  will  send  my  friend  to  you  in  the  coursa 
of  the  morning." 

As  I  uttered  this  reply,  I  bowed  and  waved  him  to  the  door. 
He  did  not  answer,  other  than  by  a  bow,  and  took  his  depart- 
ure. The  promptness  which  I  had  shown  impressed  him  with 
respect.  Baffled,  in  his  first  spring,  the  bully,  like  the  tiger,  is 
very  apt  to  slink  back  to  his  jungle.  His  departure  gave  me  a 
brief  opportunity  for  reflection,  in  which  I  slightly  turned  over 
in  my  mind  the  arguments  for  and  against  duelling.  But  tlies^ 
were  now  too  late  —  even  were  they  to  decide  me  against  tiie 
practice  —  to  affect  the  present  transaction ;  and  I  sallied  ojt  to 
«eek  a  friend  —  a  friend ! 


80  CONFESSION,   OR   THE   BLIND    HEART. 

Here  was  the  first  difficulty.  I  had  precious  little  choice 
among  friends.  My  temper  was  not  one  calculated  to  make  01 
keep  friends.  My  earnestness  of  character,  and  intensity  of 
mood,  made  me  dictatorial ;  and  where  self-esteem  is  a  large 
and  active  development,  as  it  must  be  in  an  old  aristocratic  com- 
munity, such  qualities  are  continually  provoking  popular  hos- 
tility. My  friends,  too,  were  not  of  the  kind  to  whom  such 
scrapes  as  the  present  were  congenial.  I  was  unwilling  to  go 
to  young  Edgerton,  as  I  did  not  wish  to  annoy  his  parents  by 
my  novel  anxieties.  But  where  else  could  I  turn  ?  To  him  I 
went.  When  he  heard  my  story,  he  began  by  endeavoring  to 
dissuade  me  from  the  meeting. 

"  I  am  pledged  to  it,  William,"  was  my  only  answer. 

"  But,  Edward,  I  am  opposed  to  duelling  myself,  and  should 
not  promote  or  encourage,  in  another,  a  practice  which  I  would 
not  be  willing  myself  to  adopt." 

"  A  good  and  sufficient  reason,  William.  You  certainly  should 
not.  I  will  go  to  Frank  Kingsley." 

"  He  will  serve  you,  I  know ;  but,  Edward,  this  duelling  is 
a  bad  business.  It  does  no  sort  of  good.  Kill  Perkins,  and  it 
does  not  prove  to  him,  even  if  he  were  then  able  to  hear,  that 
Mrs.  Clifford  spoke  a  falsehood ;  and  if  he  kills  you,  you  are 
even  still  farther  from  convincing  him. 

"  I  have  no  such  desire,  William ;  and  your  argument,  by 
the  way,  is  one  of  those  beggings  of  the  question  which  the 
opponents  of  duelling  continually  fall  into  when  discussing  the 
subject.  The  object  of  the  man,  who,  in  a  case  like  mine, 
fights  a  duel,  is  not  to  prove  his  truth,  but  to  protect  himself 
from  persecution.  Perkins  seeks  to  bully  and  drive  me  out  of 
the  community.  Public  opinion  here  approves  of  this  mode  of 
protecting  one's  self; — nay,  if  I  do  not  avail  myself  of  its 
agency,  the  same  public  opinion  would  assist  my  assailant  in 
my  expulsion.  I  fight  on  the  same  ground  that  a  nation  fights 
when  it  goes  to  war.  It  is  the  most  obvious  and  easy  mode  to 
protect  myself  from  injury  and  insult.  So  long  as  I  submit, 
Perkins  will  insult  and  bully,  and  the  city  will  encourage  him, 
If  I  resist,  I  silence  this  fellow,  and  perhaps  protect  othej 
young  beginners.  I  have  not  the  most  distant  idea  of  con- 
vincing him  of  my  truth  by  fighting  him — nay,  the  idea  of 


DUELLO.  81 

giving  him  satisfaction  is  an  idea  that  never  entered  my  brain. 
I  simply  take  a  popular  mode  of  securing  myself  from  outrage 
and  persecution." 

"  But,  do  you  secure  yourself?     Has  duelling  this  result?" 

"Not  invariably,  pei haps ;  simply  because  the  condition  of 
humanity  does  not  recognise  invariable  results.  If  it  is  shown 
to  be  the  probable,  the  frequent  result,  it  is  all  that  can  be  ex- 
pected of  any  human  agency  or  law." 

"  But,  is  it  probable  —  frequent?" 

"  Yes,  almost  certain,  almost  invariable.  Look  at  the  general 
manners,  the  deportment,  the  forbearance,  of  all  communities 
where  duelling  is  recognised  as  an  agent  of  society.  See  the 
superior  deference  paid  to  females,  the  unfrequency  of  bully- 
ing, the  absence  of  blackguarding,  the  higher  tone  of  the 
public  press,  and  of  society  in  general,  from  which  the  public 
press  takes  its  tone,  and  which  it  represents  in  our  country,  but 
does  not  often  inform.  Even  seduction  is  a  rare  offence,  and  a 
matter  of  general  exclamation,  where  this  extra-judicial  ageni 
is  recognised." 

And  so  forth.  It  is  not  necessary  to  repeat  our  discussion  o) 
this  vexed  question,  of  its  uses  and  abuses.  I  did  not  succeed 
in  convincing  him,  and,  under  existing  circumstances,  it  is  not 
reasonable  to  imagine  that  his  arguments  had  any  influence 
over  me.  To  Frank  Kingsley  I  went,  and  found  him  in  better 
mood  to  take  up  the  cudgels,  and  even  make  my  cause  his  own. 
He  was  one  of  those  ardent  bloods,  who  liked  nothing  better 
than  the  excitement  of  -.men  an  affair ;  whether  as  principal  or 
assistant,  it  mattered  little.  To  him  I  expressed  my  wish  that 
his  arrangements  should  bring  the  matter  to  an  issue,  if  possible, 
within  the  next  twenty  four  hours. 

"  Prime !"  he  exclaimed,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  That's  what 
I  like.  If  you  shoot  as  quickly  now,  and  as  much  to  the  point, 
you  may  count  any  button  on  Perkins's  coat." 

He  proceeded  to  confer  with  the  friend  of  my  opponent, 
while,  with  a  meditative  mind,  I  went  to  my  office,  necessarily 
oppressed  with  the  strange  feelings  belonging  to  my  situation. 
In  less  than  two  hours  after  Kingsley  brought  me  the  carte,  by 
which  I  found  that  the  meeting  was  to  take  place  two  miles  om 

4* 


82  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND    HEART. 

of  town,  by  sunrise  the  day  after  the  one  ensuing  —  the  weap- 
ons, pistols  —  distance,  as  customary,  ten  paces! 

"  You  are  a  shot,  of  course  ?"  said  Kingsley. 

My  answer,  in  the  negative,  astonished  him. 

"  Why,  you  will  have  little  or  no  time  for  practice." 

"  I  do  not  intend  it.  My  object  is  not  to  kill  this  man ;  but 
to  make  him  and  all  others  see  that  the  dread  of  what  may  be 
done,  either  by  him  or  them,  will  never  reconcile  me  to  submit 
to  injury  or  insult.  I  shall  as  effectually  secure  this  object  by 
going  out,  as  I  do,  without  preparation,  as  if  I  were  the  best 
shot  in  America.  He  does  not  know  that  I  am  not ;  and  a 
pistol  is  always  a  source  of  danger  when  in  the  grasp  of  a  deter- 
mined man." 

"  You  are  a  queer  fellow  in  your  notions,  Clifford,  and  I  can 
not  say  that  I  altogether  understand  you ;  but  you  must  cer- 
tainly ride  out  with  me  this  afternoon,  and  bark  a  tree.  It  will 
do  no  hurt  to  a  determined  man  to  be  a  skilful  one  also." 

"  I  see  no  use  in  it." 

"  Why  —  what  if  you  should  wish  to  wing  him  ?" 

"  I  think  I  can  do  it  without  practice.  But  I  have  no  such 
desire." 

"  Heally  you  are  unnecessarily  magnanimous.  You  may  be 
put  to  it,  however.  Should  the  first  shot  be  ineffectual  and  he 
should  demand  a  second,  would  you  throw  away  that  also  ?" 

"  No  !  I  should  then  try  to  shoot  him.  As  my  simple  aim  is 
to  secure  myself  from  persecution,  which  is  usually  the  most 
effectual  mode  of  destroying  a  young  man  in  this  country,  I 
should  resort  only  to  such  a  course  as  would  be  likely  to  yield 
me  this  security.  That  failing,  I  should  employ  stronger 
measures ;  precisely  as  a  nation  would  do  in  a  similar  conflict 
with  another  nation.  One  must  not  suffer  himself  to  be  de- 
stroyed or  driven  into  exile.  This  is  the  first  law  of  nature — 
this  of  self-preservation.  In  maintaining  this  law,  a  man  must 
do  any  or  all  things  which  in  his  deliberate  judgment,  will  be 
effectual  for  the  end  proposed.  Were  I  fighting  with  savages, 
for  example,  and  knew  that  they  regarded  their  scalps  with 
more  reverence  than  their  lives,  I  should  certainly  scalp  as  well 
as  slay." 

"  They  would  call  that  barbarous  ]" 


DUELLO.  83 

•'  Ay,  no  doubt ;  particularly  in  those  countries  where  they 
paid  from  five  to  fifty,  and  even  one  hundred  pounds  to  one  In- 
dian for  the  scalp  of  his  brother,  until  they  rid  themselves  of 
both.  But  see  you  not  that  the  scalping  process,  as  it  produces 
the  most  terror  aud  annoyance,  is  decidedly  the  most  merciful, 
as  being  most  likely  to  discourage  and  deter  from  war.  If  the 
srt,alp  could  bo  taken  from  the  head  of  every  Seminole  shot 
down,  be  sure  the  survivors  never  after  would  have  come  with- 
in  range  of  rifle-shot." 

But  these  discussions  gave  way  to  the  business  before  me. 
Kingsley  left  me  to  myself,  and  though  sad  and  serious  with  op- 
pressive thoughts,  I  still  had  enough  of  the  old  habits,  dominant 
with  me,  to  go  to  my  daily  concerns,  and  arrange  my  papers 
with  considerable  industry  and  customary  method.  My  profes 
sional  business  was  set  in  order,  and  Edgerton  duly  initiated  Jn 
the  knowledge  of  all  such  portions  as  needed  explanation. 
This  done,  I  sat  down  and  wrote  a  long  farewell  letter  to  Julia, 
and  one,  more  brief,  but  renewing  the  eounsel  I  had  previously 
given  to  her  father,  in  respect  to  the  suit  against  him.  These 
letters  were  so  disposed  as  to  be  sent  in  the  event  of  my  falling 
in  the  fight.  The  interval  which  followed  was  not  so  easy  to 
be  borne.  Conscience  and  reflection  were  equally  busy,  and 
unpleasantly  so.  I  longed  for  the  time  of  action  which  should 
silence  these  unpleasant  monitors. 

The  brief  space  of  twenty -four  hours  was  soon  overpassed, 
and  my  anxieties  ceased  as  the  moment  for  the  meeting  with 
my  enemy,  drew  nigh.  My  friend  called  at  my  lodgings  a 
good  hour  before  daylight — it  was  a  point  of  credit  with  him 
that  we  should  not  delay  the  opposite  party  the  sixtieth  part 
of  a  second.  We  drove  out  into  the  country  in  a  close  carriage, 
taking  a  surgeon  —  who  was  a  friend  of  Kingsley  —  along  with 
us.  We  were  on  the  ground  in  due  season,  and  some  little  time 
before  our  customers.  But  they  did  not  fail  or  delay  us.  They 
were  there  with  sufficient  promptitude. 

Perkins  was  a  man  of  coolness  and  courage.  He  took  his 
position  with  admirable  nonchalance ;  but  I  observed,  when  his 
eyes  met  mine,  that  they  were  darkened  with  a  scowl  of  anger. 
His  brows  were  contracted,  and  his  face  which  was  ordinarily 
red,  had  an  increased  flush  upon  it  which  betrayed  unusual  ex- 


84  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

citement.  He  evidently  regarded  me  with  feelings  of  bittei 
animosity.  Perhaps  this  was1  natural  enough,  if  he  believed  the 
story  of  Mrs.  Clifford  —  and  my  scornful  answer  to  his  friend, 
Mr.  Carter,  was  not  calculated  to  lessen  the  soreness.  For  my 
part,  I  am  free  to  declare,  I  had  not  the  smallest  sentiment  of 
unkindness  toward  the  fellow.  I  thought  little  of  him,  but  did 
not  hate  —  I  could  not  have  hated  him.  I  had  no  wish  to  do 
him  hurt ;  and,  as  already  stated,  only  went  out  to  put  a  stop 
to  the  further  annoyances  of  insolents  and  hullies,  hy  the  only 
effectual  mode  —  precisely  as  I  should  have  used  a  hludgeon 
over  his  head,  in  the  event  of  a  personal  assault  upon  me.  Of 
course,  I  had  no  purpose  to  do  him  any  injury,  unless  with  tlie 
view  to  my  own  safety.  I  resolved  secretly  to  throw  away  my 
fire.  Kingsley  suspected  me  of  some  such  intention,  and  ear- 
nestly protested  against  it. 

"  I  should  not  place  you  at  all,"  he  said,  "  if  I  fancied  you 

could  do  a  thing  so  d d  foolish.  The  fellow  intends  to 

shoot  you  if  he  can.  Help  him  to  a  share  of  the  same  sauce." 

1  nodded  as  he  proceeded  to  his  arrangements.  Here  some 
conference  ensued  between  the  seconds  : — 

"  Mr.  Carter  was  very  sorry  that  such  a  business  must  pro- 
ceed. Was  it  yet  too  late  to  rectify  mistakes  ?  Might  not  the 
matter  be  adjusted  1" 

Kingsley,  on  such  occasions,  the  very  prince  of  punctilio, 
agreed  that  the  matter  was  a  very  lamentable  one — to  be  re- 
gretted, and  so  forth — but  of  the  necessity  of  the  thing,  he, 
Mr.  Carter,  for  his  principal,  must  be  the  only  judge. 

"  Mr.  Carter  could  answer  for  his  friend,  Mr.  Perkins,  that  he 
was  always  accessible  to  reason." 

'•'  Mr.  Kingsley  never  knew  a  man  more  so  than  Ms  principal." 

"  May  we  not  reconcile  the  parties  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Carter. 

"  Does  Mr.  Perkins  withdraw  his  message  ?"  answered  Kings- 
ley  by  another  question. 

"  He  would  do  so,  readily,  were  there  any  prospect  of  adjust- 
ting  the  matter  upon  an  honorable  footing." 

"  Mr.  Carter  will  be  pleased  to  name  the  basis  for  what  he 
esteems  an  honorable  adjustment." 

"Mr.  Perkins  withdraws  his  challenge." 

**  We  have  no  objection  to  that." 


DUELLO.  85 

"  He  substitutes  a  courteous  requisition  upon  Mr.  Clifford  for 
an  explanation  of  certain  language,  supposed  to  be  offensive, 
made  to  a  lady." 

"  Mr.  Clifford  denies,  without  qualification,  the  employment 
of  any  such  language." 

"This  throws  us  back  on  our  old  ground,"  said  Carter — 
"  there  is  a  lady  in  question—" 

"  Who  can  not  certainly  be  brought  into  the  controversy," 
said  Kingsley — "  I  see  no  other  remedy,  Mr.  Carter,  but  that 
we  should  place  the  parties.  We  are  here  to  answer  to  your 
final  summons." 

"  Very  good,  sir ;  this  matter,  and  what  happens,  must  lie  at  your 
door.  You  are  peremptory.  I  trust  you  have  provided  a  surgeon." 

"  His  services  are  at  your  need,  sir,"  replied  Kingsley  with 
military  courtesy. 

"I  thank  you,  sir — my  remark  had  reference  to  your  own 
necessity.  Shall  we  toss  up  for  the  word  1" 

These  preliminaries  were  soon  adjusted.  The  word  fell  to 
Carter,  aixl  thus  gave  an  advantage  to  Perkins,  as  his  ear  was 
more  familiar  than  mine  with  the  accents  of  his  friend.  We 
were  placed,  and  the  pistol  put  into  my  hands,  without  my  ut- 
tering a  sentence. 

"  Coolly  now,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Kingsley  in  a  whisper, 
as  he  withdrew  from  my  side ;  —  "  wing  him  at  least — but  don't 
burn  powder  for  nothing." 

Scarcely  the  lapse  of  a  moment  followed,  when  I  heard  the 
words  "  one,"  "  two,"  "  three,"  in  tolerably  rapid  succession, 
and,  at  the  utterance  of  the  last,  I  pulled  trigger.  My  antag- 
onist had  done  so  at  the  first.  His  eye  was  fixed  upon  mine 
with  deliberate  malignity  —  that  I  clearly  saw — but  it  did  not 
affect  my  shot.  This,  I  purposely  threw  away.  The  skill  of 
my  enemy  did  not  correspondend  with  his  evident  desires.  I 
was  hurt,  but  very  slightly.  His  bullet  merely  raised  the  skin 
upon  the  fleshy  part  of  my  right  thigh.  We  kept  our  places 
while  a  conference  ensued  between  the  two  seconds.  Mr.  Per- 
kins, through  his  friend,  declared  himself  unsatisfied  unless  1 
apologized,  or — in  less  unplrasant  language — explained.  This 
demand  was  answered  by  Kingsley  with  cavalier  indifference. 
He  came  to  me  with  a  second  pistol.  His  good-humored  visaga 
was  now  slightly  ruffled. 


86  CONFESSION,   OK  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

"  Clifford !"  said  he,  as  he  put  the  weapon  into  my  hand, 
"  you  must  trifle  no  longer.  This  fellow  abuses  your  generosity. 
He  knows,  as  well  as  I,  that  you  threw  away  your  fire ;  and 
he  will  play  the  same  game  with  you,  on  the  same  terms,  for  a 
month  together,  Sundays  not  excepted.  I  am  not  willing  to 
stand  by  and  see  you  risk  your  life  in  this  manner  ;  and,  unless 
you  tell  me  that  you  will  give  him  as  good  as  he  sends,  I  leave 
you  on  the  spot.  Will  you  take  aim  this  time  ?" 

"I  will!" 

"  You  promise  me  then  ?" 

"I  do!" 

I  was  conscious  of  the  increased  activity  of  my  organ  of 
destructiveness  as  I  said  these  words.  I  smiled  with  a  feeling 
of  pleasant  bitterness  —  that  spicy  sort  of  malice  which  you  may 
sometimes  rouse  in  the  bosom  of  the  best-natured  man  in  the 
world,  by  an  attempt  to  do  him  injustice.  The  wound  I  had 
received,  though  very  trifling,  had  no  little  to  do  with  this  de- 
termination. It  was  not  unlike  such  a  wound  as  would  be 
made  by  a  smart  stroke  of  a  whip,  and  the  effect  upon  my  blood 
was  pretty  much  as  if  it  had  been  inflicted  by  some  such  instru- 
ment. I  was  stung  and  irritated  by  it,  and  the  pertinacity  of 
my  enemy,  particularly  as  he  must  have  seen  that  my  shot  was 
thrown  away,  decided  me  to  punish  him  if  I  could.  I  did  so ! 
I  was  not  conscious  that  I  was  hurt  myself,  until  I  saw  him  fal- 
ling! —  I  then  felt  a  heavy  and  numbing  sensation  in  the  same 
thigh  which  had  been  touched  before.  A  faintness  relieved  me 
from  present  sensibility,  and  when  I  became  conscious,  I  found 
myself  in  the  carriage,  supported  by  Kingsley  and  the  surgeon, 
on  my  way  to  my  lodgings.  My  wound  was  a  flesh  wound 
only ;  the  ball  was  soon  extracted,  and  in  a  few  weeks  after,  1 
was  enabled  to  move  about  with  scarcely  a  feeling  of  incon- 
venience. My  opponent  suffered  a  much  heavier  penalty.  The 
bone  of  his  leg  was  fractured,  and  it  was  several  months  before 
he  was  considered  perfectly  safe.  The  lesson  he  got  made  him 
a  sorer  and  shorter  —  a  wiser,  if  not  a  better  man;  but  as  I  do 
not  now,  and  did  not  then,  charge  myself  with  the  task  of 
bringing  about  his  moral  improvement,  it  is  not  incumbent  upon 
me  to  say  anything  further  on  this  subject.  We  will  Icav1.  him 
to  get  better  as  he  may 


HEAD   WINDS.  17 


CHAPTER  X. 

HEAD    WINDS. 

THE  hurts  of  Perkins  did  not,  unhappily,  delay  the  progress 
of  my  uncle  to  that  destruction  to  which  his  silly  wife  and 
knavish  lawyer  had  destined  him.  His  business  was  brought 
before  the  court  by  the  claimants,  Messrs.  Banks  &  Tressell ; 
arid  a  brief  period  only  was  left  him  for  putting  in  his  answer. 
When  I  thought  of  Julia,  I  resolved,  in  spite  of  all  previous 
difficulties — the  sneers  of  the  father,  and  the  more  direct,  coarse 
insults  of  the  mother — to  make  one  more  effort  to  rescue  him 
from  the  fate  which  threatened  him.  I  felt  sure  that,  for  the 
reasons  already  given,  the  merchants  would  still  be  willing  to 
effect  a  compromise  which  would  secure  them  the  principal  of 
their  claim,  without  incurring  the  delay  and  risk  of  litigation. 
Accordingly,  I  penned  a  note  to  Mr.  Clifford,  requesting  permis- 
sion to  wait  upon  him  at  home,  at  a  stated  hour.  To  this  I  re- 
ceived a  cold,  brief  answer,  covering  the  permission  which  I 
sought.  I  went,  but  might  as  well  have  spared  myself  the  labor 
and  annoyance  of  this  visit.  Mrs.  Clifford  was  still  in  the  as- 
cendant—  still  deaf  to  reason,  and  utterly  blind  to  ths  base 
position  into  which  her  meddlesome  interference  in  the  business 
threw  her  husband.  She  had  her  answer  ready ;  and  did  not 
merely  content  herself  with  rejecting  my  overtures,  but  pro- 
ceeded to  speak  in  the  language  of  one  who  really  regarded  m3 
as  busily  seeking,  by  covert  ways,  to  effect  the  ruin  of  her 
family.  Her  looks  and  language  equally  expressed  the  indig- 
nation of  a  mind  perfectly  convinced  of  the  fraudulent  and  eTdi 
purposes  of  the  person  she  addressed.  Those  of  my  uncle  were 
scarcely  less  offensive.  A  grin  of  malicious  self-gratulation 
mantled  his  lips  as  he  thanked  me  for  my  counsel,  which,  h« 


88  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

yet  remarked,  "  however  wise  and  good,  and  well-intended,  he 
did  not  think  it  advisable  to  adopt.  He  had  every  confidence 
in  the  judgment  of  Mr.  Perkins,  who,  though  without  the  great 
legal  knowledge  of  some  of  his  youthful  neighbors,  had  enough 
for  his  purposes ;  and  had  persuaded  him  to  see  the  matter  in  a 
very  different  point  of  view  from  that  in  which  I  was  pleased 
to  regard  it." 

There  was  no  doing  anything  with  or  for  these  people.  The 
fiat  for  their  overthrow  had  evidently  been  issued.  The  fatuity 
which  leads  to  self-destruction  was  fixed  upon  them ;  and,  with 
a  feeling  rather  of  commiseration  than  anger,  I  prepared  to 
leave  the  house.  In  this  interview,  I  made  a  discovery,  which 
tended  still  more  to  lessen  the  hostility  I  might  otherwise  have 
felt  toward  my  uncle.  I  was  constrained  to  perceive  that  he 
labored  under  an  intellectual  feebleness  and  incertitude  which 
disconcerted  his  expression,  left  his  thoughts  seemingly  without 
purpose,  and  altogether  convinced  me  that,  if  not  positively 
imbecile  in  mind  and  memory,  there  were  yet  some  ugly  symp- 
toms of  incapacity  growing  upon  him  which  might  one  day 
result  in  the  loss  of  both.  I  had  always  known  him  to  be  a 
weak-minded  man,  disposed  to  vanity  und  caprice,  but  the  weak- 
ness had  expanded  very  much  in  a  brief  period,  and  now  prc- 
sentco  itself  to  my  view  in  sundry  very  salient  aspects.  It 
was  eas/  now  to  divert  his  attention  from  the  business  which 
he  had  in  hand  —  a  single  casual  remark  of  courtesy  or  obser- 
vation would  have  this  effect — and  then  his  mind  wandered 
r  :.m  the  subject  with  all  the  levity  and  caprice  of  a  thoughtless 
damsel.  He  seemed  to  entertain  now  no  sort  of  apprehension 
of  his  legal  difficulties,  and  spoke  of  them  as  topics  already  ad- 
justed Nay,  for  that  matter,  he  seemed  to  have  no  serious 
cense  of  any  subject,  whatever  might  be  its  personal  or  general 
intarest ;  but,  passing  from  point  to  point,  exhibited  that  insta- 
bility of  mental  vision  which  may  net  inaptly  be  compared  to 
that  wandering  glance  which  is  usually  supposed  to  distinguish 
and  denote,  in  the  physical  eye,  the  presence  of  insanity.  It 
was  not  often  now  that  he  indulged,  while  speaking  to  me,  in 
that  manner  of  Lostility  —  those  sneers  and  sarcastic  remarks 
-—which  had  bten  his  common  habit.  This  was  another  proof 
cf  the  change  which  his  mental  man  had  undergone.  It  was 


HEAD  WINDS. 

not  that  he  was  more  prudent  or  more  tolerant  than  before. 
He  was  quite  as  little  disposed  to  be  generous  toward  me.  But 
he  now  appeared  wholly  incapable  of  that  degree  of  intellectual 
concentration  which  could  enable  him  to  examine  a  subject  to 
its  close.  He  would  begin  to  talk  with  me  seriously  enough, 
and  with  a  due  solemnity,  about  the  suit  against  him ;  but,  in  a 
tangent,  he  would  dart  off  to  the  consideration  of  some  trifle, 
some  household  matter,  or  petty  affair,  of  which,  at  any  other 
time,  he  must  have  known  that  his  hearers  had  no  wish  to  hear. 
Poor  Julia  confirmed  the  conjectures  which  I  entertained,  but 
did  not  utter,  by  telling  me  that  her  father  had  changed  very 
much  in  his  ways  ever  since  this  business  had  been  begun. 

"  Mother  does  not  see  it,  but  he  is  no  longer  the  same  man. 
Oh,  Edward,  I  sometimes  think  he's  even  growing  childish." 

The  fear  was  a  well-founded  one.  Before  the  case  was  tried, 
Mr.  Clifford  was  generally  regarded,  among  those  who  knew 
him  intimately,  as  little  better  than  an  imbecile ;  and  so  rapid 
\vas  the  progress  of  his  infirmity,  that  when  the  judgment  was 
given,  as  it  was,  against  him,  he  was  wholly  unable  to  under- 
stand or  fear  its  import.  His  own  sense  of  guilt  had  antici- 
pated its  effects,  and  his  intense  vanity  was  saved  from  public 
shame  only  by  the  substitution  of  public  pity.  The  decree  of 
the  court  gave  all  that  was  asked ;  and  the  handsome  compe- 
tence of  the  Cliffords  was  exchanged  for  a  miserable  pittance, 
which  enabled  the  family  to  livvi  only  in  the  very  humblest 
manner. 

It  will  readily  be  conjectured,  from  what  I  have  stated  in 
respect  to  myself,  that  mine  was  not  the  disposition  to  seek 
revenge,  or  find  cause  for  exultation  in  these  deplorable  events. 
I  had  no  hostility  against  my  unhappy  uncle ;  I  should  have 
scorned  myself  if  I  had.  If  such  a  feeling  ever  filled  my  bosom. 
it  would  have  been  most  effectually  disarmed  by  the  sight  ot 
the  wretched  old  man,  a  grinning,  gibbering  idict,  half-dancing 
and  half-shivering  from  the  cold,  over  the  remnants  of  a  mijiei- 
able  and  scant  fire  in  the  severest  evening  in  November.  Is 
was  when  the  affair  was  all  over ;  when  the  property  of  the 
family  was  all  in  the  hands  of  the  sheriff;  when  the  mi^h^--- 
ous  counsel  of  such  a  person  «vs  Jo^p-lbjn!  Psikins,  Esquire, 
do  no  more  harm  even  to  so  foolish  a  person  as  my  uncled 


90  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

wife ;  and  when  bis  presence,  naturally  enough  withdrawn  from 
a  family  from  which  he  could  derive  no  further  profit,  and 
which  he  had  helped  to  ruin,  was  no  longer  likely  to  offend 
mine  by  meeting  him  there — that  I  proceeded  to  renew  my 
direct  intercourse  with  the  unfortunate  people  whom  I  was  not 
suffered  to  save. 

The  reader  is  not  to  suppose  that  I  had  kept  myself  entirely 
aloof  from  the  family  until  these  disasters  had  happened.  I 
sought  Julia  when  occasion  offered,  and,  though  she  refused  it, 
tendered  my  services  and  my  means  whenever  they  might  be 
bestowed  with  hope  of  good.  And  now,  when  all  was  over, 
and  I  met  her  at  the  door,  and  she  sank  upon  my  bosom,  and 
wept  in  my  embrace,  still  less  than  ever  was  I  disposed  to  show 
to  her  mother  the  natural  triumph  of  a  sagacity  which  had 
shown  itself  at  the  expense  of  hers.  I  forgot,  in  the  first  glance 
of  my  uncle,  all  his  folly  and  unkindness.  He  was  now  a  shadow, 
and  the  mental  wreck  was  one  of  the  most  deplorable,  as  it  was 
one  of  the  most  rapid  and  complete,  that  eould  be  imagined. 
In  less  than  seven  months,  a  strong  man  —  strong  in  health — 
strong,  as  supposed,  in  intellect  —  singularly  acute  in  his  deal- 
ings among  tradesmen — regarded  by  them  as  one  of  the  most 
shrewd  in  the  fraternity  —  vain  of  his  parts,  of  his  family,  and 
of  his  fortune  —  solicitous  of  display,  and  constant  in  its  indul- 
gence l — that  such  a  man  should  be  stricken  down  to  imbecility 
and  idiotism  —  a  meagre  skeleton  in  form  —  pale,  puny,  timid 
—  crouching  by  the  fireplace  —  grinning  with  stealthy  looks, 
momently  cast  around  him  —  and  playing — his  most  constant 
employment  —  with  th&  bellows-strings  that  hung  beside  him, 
or  the  little  kitten,  that,  delighted  with  new  consideration,  had 
learned  to  take  her  place  constantly  at  his  feet!  What  a 
wreck ! 

But  the  moral  man  had  been  wrecked  before,  or  this  could 
not  h.ave  been.  It  was  only  because  of  his  guilt  —  of  its  expo- 
sure rather — that  he  sunk.  In  striving  to  shake  off  the  rm- 
pressive  burden,  he  shook  off  the  intellect  which  had  been  corn- 
wallop  chiefly  tx)  fcodwre  ik  The  sense  of  shame,  the  conviction 
or  loss,  and,  possibly,  other  causes  of  conscience  which  lay  yet 
deeper  —  for  the  progeny  of  crime  is  most  frequently  a  litter  as 
numerous  as  a  whelp's  puppies  —  helped  to  crush  the  mind 


HEAD  WINDS.  91 

which  was  neither  strong  enough  to  resist  temptation  at  first, 
nor  to  bear  exposure  at  last.  I  turned  away  with  a  tear,  which 
I  could  not  suppress,  from  the  wretched  spectacle.  But  I  coulc 
have  home  with  more  patience  to  behold  this  ruin,  than  to  sub- 
due the  rising  reproach  which  I  felt  as  I  turned  to  encounter 
Mrs.  Clifford. 

This  weak  woman,  still  weak,  received  me  coldly,  and  I  could 
see  in  her  looks  that  she  regarded  me  as  one  whom  it  was  natu- 
ral to  suppose  would  feel  some  exultation  at  beholding  their  down- 
fall. I  saw  this,  but  determined  to  say  nothing,  in  the  attempt  to 
undo  these  impressions.  I  knew  that  time  was  the  best  teacher 
in  all  such  matters,  and  resolved  that  my  deportment  should 
gradually  make  her  wiser-  on  the  subject  of  that  nature  which 
she  had  so  frequently  abused,  and  which,  I  well  knew,  sho 
could  never  understand.  But  this  hope  I  soon  discovered  to 
be  unavailing.  Her  disaster  had  only  soured,  not  subdued  her ; 
and,  with  the  natural  tendency  of  the  vulgar  mind,  she  seemed 
to  regard  me  as  the  person  to  whom  she  should  ascribe  all  her 
misfortunes.  As,  to  her  narrow  intellect,  it  seemed  natural 
that  I  should  exult  in  the  accomplishment  of  my  predictions,  so 
it  was  a  process  equally  natural  that  she  should  couple  me  with 
their  occurrence ;  and,  indeed,  I  was  too  nearly  connected  with 
the  event,  through  the  medium  of  my  unconscious  father,  not 
to  feel  some  portion  of  the  affliction  on  his  account  also  •  though 
neither  his  memory  nor  my  reputation  suffered  from  the  devel- 
opment of  the  affair  in  the  community  where  we  lived. 

Mrs.  Clifford  did  not  openly,  or  in  words,  betray  the  feelings 
which  were  striving  in  her  soul ;  but  the  general  restraint  which 
she  put  upon  herself  in  my  presence,  the  acerbity  of  her  tone, 
manner,  and  language,  to  poor  Julia,  and  the  unvaried  queru- 
lousness  of  her  remarks,  were  sufficient  to  apprize  me  of  the 
spite  which  she  would  have  willingly  bestowed  upon  myself, 
had  she  any  tolerable  occasion  for  doing  so.  A  few  weeks 
served  still  further  to  humble  the  conceit  and  insolence  of  the 
unfortunate  woman.  The  affair  turned  out  much  more  seriously 
than  I  expected.  A  sudden  fall  in  the  value  of  real  and  per- 
sonal estate,  just  about  the  time  when  the  sheriff's  sale  too*s 
place,  rendered  necessary  a  second  levy,  which  swept  the  mis- 
erable remnant  of  Mr.  Clifford's  fortune,  leaving  nothing-  to  ray 


92*  CONFESSION,   OE  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

uncle  but  a  small  estate  which  had  been  secured  by  settlement 
to  Mrs.  Clifford  and  her  daughter,  and  which  the  sheriff  could 
not  legally  lay  hands  on. 

I  came  forward  at  this  juncture,  and,  having  allowed  them  to 
remove  into  the  small  tenement  to  which,  in  their  reduced  con- 
dition they  found  it  prudent  to  retire,  I  requested  a  private  inter- 
view with  Mr3.  Clifford,  and  readily  obtained  it. 

I  was  received  by  the  good  lady  in  apparent  state.  All  the 
little  furniture  which  she  could  save  from  the  former,  was  trans- 
ferred very  inappropriately  to  the  present  dwelling-house.  The 
one  was  quite  unsuited  to  the  other.  The  massive  damask  cur- 
tains accorded  badly  with  the  little  windows  over  which  they 
were  now  suspended,  and  the  sofa,  ten  feet  in  length,  occupied 
an  unreasonable  share  of  an  apartment  twelve  by  sixteen.  The 
dais  of  piled  cushions,  on  which  so  many  fashionable  groups  had 
lounged  in  better  times,  now  seemed  a  mountain,  which  begot 
ideas  of  labor,  difficulty,  and  up-hill  employment,  rather  than 
ease,  as  the  eye  beheld  it  cumbering  two  thirds  of  the  miserable 
area  into  which  it  was  so  untastefully  compressed.  These,  and 
other  articles  of  splendor  and  luxury,  if  sold,  would  have  yielded 
her  the  means  to  buy  furniture  more  suitable  to  her  circumstances 
and  situation,  and  left  her  with  some  additional  resources  to  meet 
the  daily  and  sometimes  pressing  exigencies  of  life. 

The  appearance  of  this  parlor  argued  little  in  behalf  of 
the  salutary  effect  which  such  reverses  might  be  expected 
to  produce  in  a  mind  even  tolerably  sensible.  They  argued, 
J  fancied,  as  unfavorably  for  my  suit  as  for  the  humility  of 
the  lady  whom  I  was  about  to  meet.  If  the  parlor  of  Mrs. 
Clifford  bore  such  sufficient  tokens  of  her  weakness  of  in- 
tellect, her  own  costume  betrayed  still  more.  She  had  made  her 
person  a  sort  of  frame  or  rack  upon  which  she  hung  every  par- 
ticle of  that  ostentatious  drapery  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of 
v,  taring  at  her  fashionable  evenings.  A  year's  income  was  para- 
ded upon  her  back,  and  the  trumpery  jewels  of  three  generations 
found  a  place  on  every  part  of  her  person  where  it  is  usual  for 
fashionable  folly  to  display  such  gewgaws.  She  sailed  into  the 
room  in  a  style  that  brought  to  my  mind  instantly  the  description 
which  Milton  gives  of  the  approach  of  Delilah  to  Samson,  after 
the  first  days  of  his  blind  captivity ;  - 


HEAD  WINDS.  93 

"But  who  is  this,  what  thing  of  se&  or  land? — 
Female  of  sex  it  seems — 
That  so  bedecked,  ornate  and  gay, 
Conies  this  way  sailing,  like  a  stately  ship 
Of  Tarsus,  bound  for  the  isles 
Of  Javan  or  Gadire, 
With  all  her  bravery  on  and  tackle  trim, 
Sails  filled,  and  streamers  waving, 
Courted  by  all  the  winds  that  hold  their  play, 
An  amber  ccent  of  odorous  perfume 
Her  harbinger  I" 

No  description  could  have  been  more  just  and  literal  in  the  case 
of  Mrs.  Clifford.  I  could  scarce  believe  my  eyes ;  and  when 
forced  to  do  so,  I  could  scarcely  suppose  that  this  bravery  was 
intended  for  my  eyes  only.  Nor  was  it; — but  let  me  not  antici- 
pate. This  spectacle,  I  need  not  say,  sobered  me  entirely,  if  any- 
thing was  necessary  to  produce  this  effect,  and  increased  the 
grave  apprehensions  which  were  already  at  my  heart.  The  next 
consequence  was  to  make  the  manner  of  my  communication  se- 
rious even  to  seventy.  A  smile,  which  was  of  that  doubtful  sort 
which  is  always  sinister  and  offensive,  overspread  her  lips  as  she 
motioned  me  to  resume  the  seat  from  which  I  had  risen  at  her 
entrance ;  while  she  threw  herself  with  an  air  of  studied  negli- 
gence upon  one  part  of  the  sofa.  I  felt  the  awkwardness  of  my 
position  duly  increased,  as  her  house,  dress,  and  manner,  con- 
vinced me  that  she  was  not  yet  subdued  to  hers ;  but  a  conscious 
rectitude  of  intention  carried  me  forward,  and  lightened  the  task 
to  my  feelings. 

"  Mrs.  Clifford,"  I  said,  without  circumlocution,  "  I  have  pre- 
sumed to  ask  your  attention  this  morning  to  a  brief  communica 
tion  which  materially  affects  my  happiness,  and  which  I  trust 
may  not  diminish,  if  it  does  not  actually  promote,  yours.  Before 
I  make  this  communication,  however,  I  hope  I  may  persuade 
myself  that  the  little  misunderstandings  which  have  occurred 
between  us  are  no  longer  to  be  considered  barriers  to  our  mutual 
peace  and  happiness "  „ 

'  Misunderstandings,  Mr.  Clifford  ? — I  don't  know  what  mis- 
cmderstandings  you  mean.  1  'm  sure  I've  never  misunderstood 
you." 

I  could  not  misunderstand  the  insolent  tenor  of  this  speech, 


94  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

but  I  availed  myself  of  the  equivoque  which  it  involved  to  ex 
press  my  gratification  that  such  was  the  case. 

"  My  path  will  then  be  more  easy,  Mrs.  Clifford — my  purpose 
more  easily  explained." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,  sir,"  she  answered  coolly,  smoothing 
down  certain  folds  of  her  frock,  and  crossing  her  hands  upon  her 
lap,  while  she  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  patient  listener.  There 
was  something  very  repulsive  in  all  this ;  but  I  saw  that  the  only 
way  to  lessen  the  unpleasantness  of  the  scene,  and  to  get  on 
with  her,  would  be  to  make  the  interview  as  short  as  possible, 
and  come  at  once  to  my  object.  This  I  did. 

"  It  is  now  more  than  a  year,  Mrs.  Clifford,  since  I  had  the 
honor  to  say  to  my  uncle,  that  I  entertained  for  my  cousin  Julia 
such  a  degree  of  affection  as  to  make  it  no  longer  doubtful  to 
me  that  I  should  best  consult  my  own  happiness  by  seeking  to 
make  her  my  wife.  I  had  the  pleasure  at  the  same  time  to  in- 
form him,  which  I  believed  to  be  true,  that  Julia  herself  was 
not  unwilling  that  such  should  be  the  nearer  tie  between  us " 

"  Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Clifford,  I  know  all  this ;  but  my  husband  and 
myself  thought  better  of  it,  and "  she  said  with  fidgetty  im- 
patience. 

"  And  my  application  was  refused,"  I  said  calmly ;  thus  fin- 
ishing the  sentence  where  she  had  paused. 

"  Well,  sir,  and  what  then  ?" 

"  At  that  time,  madam,  my  uncle  gave  as  a  reason  that  he  had 
other  arrangements  in  view." 

"  Yes,  sir,  so  we  had ;  and  this  reminds  me  that  those  arrange- 
ments were  broken  off  entirely  in  consequence  of  the  perversity 
which  you  taught  my  daughter.  I  know  it  all,  sir ;  there's  no 
more  need  to  tell  me  of  it,  than  there  is  to  deny  it.  You  put 
my  daughter  up  to  refusing  young  Roberts,  who  would  have 
jumped  at  her,  as  his  father  did — and  he  one  of  the  best  families . 
and  best  fortunes  in  the  city.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  sir,  what 
object  you  can  have  in  reminding  me  of  these  things." 

Here  was  ingenious  perversity.  I  bore  with  it  as  well  as  I 
could,  and  strove  to  preserve  my  consideration  and  calmness. 

"  You  do  your  daughter  injustice,  Mrs.  Clifford,  and  me  no  less, 
in  this  opinion.  But  I  do  not  seek  to  remind  you  >f  misunder- 
standings and  mistakes,  the  memory  of  which  can  do  no  good. 


HEAD   WISDS.  95 

My  purpose  now  is  to  renew  the  offer  to  you  which  I  originally 
made  to  Mr.  Clifford.  My  attachment  to  your  daughter  remains 
unaltered,  and  I  am  happy  to  say  that  fortune  has  favored  me  so 
far  as  to  enable  me  to  place  her  in  a  situation  of  comparative 
comfort  and  independence  which  I  could  not  offer  then " 

"  Which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  she  don't  enjoy  comfort 
and  independence  where  she  is ;  and  if  she  does  not,  sir,  to 
whom  is  it  all  owing,  sir,  but  to  you  and  your  father  1  By 
your  means  it  is  that  we  are  reduced  to  poverty;  but  you  shall 
see,  sir,  that  we  are  not  entirely  wanting  in  independence.  My 
answer,  sir,  is  just  the  same  as  Mr.  Clifford's  was.  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you  for  the  honor  you  intend  my  family,  but 
we  must  decline  it.  As  for  the  comfort  and  independence  which 
you  proffer  to  my  daughter,  I  am  happy  to  inform  you  that  she 
can  receive  it  at  any  moment  from  a  source  perhaps  far  more 
able  than  yourself  to  afford  both,  if  her  perversity  does  not 
stand  in  the  way,  as  it  did  when  young  Roberts  made  his  offers. 
Mr.  Perkins,  sir,  the  excellent  young  man  that  you  tried  to 
murder,  is  to  be  here,  sir,  this  very  morning,  to  see  my  daugh- 
ter. Herd's  his  letter,  sir,  which  you  may  read,  that  you  may 
be  under  no  apprehensions  that  my  daughter  will  ever  suffer 
from  a  want  of  comfort  and  independence." 

She  flung  a  letter  down  on  the  sofa  beside  her,  but  I  simply 
bowed,  and  declined  looking  at  it.  I  did  not,  however,  yield 
the  contest  in  this  manner.  I  urged  all  that  might  properly  be 
urged  on  the  subject,  and  with  as  much  earnestness  as  could  be 
permitted  in  an  interview  with  a  lady — and  such  a  lady!  — 
but,  as  the  reader  may  suppose,  my  toils  were  taken  in  vain : 
all  that  I  could  suggest,  either  in  the  shape  of  reason  or  expos- 
tulation, only  served  to  make  her  more  and  more  dogged,  and 
to  increase  her  tone  of  insolence ;  and  sore,  stung  with  vexation, 
disappointed,  and  something  more  than  bewildered,  I  dashed 
almost  headlong  out  of  the  house,  without  seeing  either  Julia 
or  her  father,  precisely  *at  the  moment  when  Mr.  Perkins  was 
about  to  enter. 


CONFESSION.   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

CRISIS. 

THE  result  of  this  interview  of  my  rival  with  the  mother  of 
Julia,  was  afforded  me  by  the  latter.  The  mother  had  already 
given  her  consent  to  his  suit — that  of  Julia  alone  was  to  he  ob- 
tained ;  and  to  this  end  the  arts  of  the  suitor  and  the  mother 
were  equally  devoted.  Her  refusal  only  brought  with  it  new 
forms  of  persecution.  Her  steps  were  haunted  by  the  swain, 
to  whom  Mrs.  Clifford  gave  secret  notice  of  all  her  daughter's 
intentions.  He  was  her  invariable  attendant  at  church,  where 
I  had  the  pain  constantly  to  behold  them,  in  such  close  prox- 
imity, that  I  at  length  abandoned  the  customary  house  of  wor- 
ship, and  found  my  pew  in  another,  where  I  could  be  enabled 
to  endure  the  forms  of  service  without  being  oppresssd  by  for- 
eign and  distracting  thoughts  and  fancies. 

Of  the  progress  of  the  suit  I  had  occasional  intelligence  from 
Julia  herself,  whom  I  had,  very  reluctantly  on  her  part,  per- 
suaded to  meet  me  at  the  house  of  a  female  relative  and  friend, 
who  favored  our  desires  and  managed  our  interviews.  Brief  were 
these  stolen  moments,  but  oh,  how  blissful !  The  pleasures 
they  afforded,  however,  were  almost  wholly  mine.  The  clan- 
destine character  of  our  meetings  served  to  deprive  her  of  the 
joy  which  they  otherwise  might  have  yielded ;  and  the  fear 
that  she  v/as  not  doing  right,  humbled  her  spirit  and  made  her 
tremble  with  frequent  apprehensions. 

At  length  Mrs.  Clifford  suspected  'our  interviews,  and  de- 
tected them.  We  had  a  most  stormy  scene  on  one  occasion, 
when  the  sudden  entrance  of  this  lady  surprised  us  together,  at 
the  house  of  our  friend.  The  consequence  of  this  was,  a  rupture 
between  the  ladies,  which  resulted  in  Julia's  being  forbidden  to 
visit  the  house  of  her  relative  again.  This  measure  was  fol- 


CRISIS.  97 

lowed  by  others  of  such  precaution,  that  at  length  I  could  no 
longer  communicate  with  her,  or  even  seek  her,  unless  when 
she  was  on  her  way  to  church.  Her  appearance  then  was  such 
as  to  awaken  all  my  apprehensions.  Her  form,  always  slender, 
was  become  more  so.  The  change  was  striking  in  a  single 
week.  Her  face,  usually  pale  and  delicate,  was  now  haggard. 
Her  walk  was  feeble,  and  without  elasticity.  Her  whole  appear- 
ance was  wo-begone  and  utterly  spiritless.  Days  and  weeks 
passed,  and  my  heart  was  filled  with  hourly-increasing  appre- 
hensions. I  returned  to  the  familiar  church,  but  here  I  suffered 
a  new  alarm.  That  sabbath  the  family  pew  was  unoccupied. 
While  I  trembled  lest  something  serious  had  befallen  her,  I  was 
called  on  by  the  family  physician.  This  gentleman  had  been  al- 
ways friendly.  He  had  been  my  father's  physician,  and  had 
been  his  friend  and  frequent  guest ;  he  knew  my  history,  and  sym- 
pathized with  my  fortunes.  He  now  knew  the  history  of  Ju- 
lia's affections.  She  had  made  him  her  confidante  so  far.  and 
he  brought  me  a  letter  from  her.  She  was  sick,  as  I  expected 
This  letter  was  of  startling  tenor  : — 

"  Save  me,  Edward,  if  you  can.  I  am  now  willing  to  do  as 
you  proposed.  I  can  no  longer  endure  these  annoyances  — 
these  cruel  persecutions !  My  mother  tells  me  that  I  must  sub- 
mit and  many  this  man,  if  we  would  save  ourselves  from  ruin. 
It  seems  he  nas  a  claim  against  the  estate  for  professional  ser- 
vices ;  and  as  we  have  no  other  means  of  payment,  without  the 
sale  of  all  that  is  left,  he  is  base  enough  to  insist  upon  my  hand 
as  the  condition  of  his  forbearance.  He  uses  threats  now,  since 
entreaties  have  failed  him.  Oh,  Edward,  if  you  can  save  me, 
come! — ftr,  of  a  certainty,  I  can  not  bear  this  persecution 
much  long-  •>  and  live.  I  am  now  willing  to  consent  to  do  what 
Aunt  Sop'  y  recommended.  Do  not  think  me  bold  to  say 
so,  dear  1  dward — if  I  am  bold,  it  is  despair  which  makes 
me  so."  , 

I  read  ,his  letter  with  mingled  feelings  of  indignation  and 
delight-  indignation,  because  of  the  cruelties  to  which  the 
worthle*  mother  and  the  base  suitor  subjected  one  so  dear  and 
innocen  delight,  since  the  consent  which  she  now  yielded 
placed  e  means  of  saving  her  at  my  control.  The  consent 
was  to  flight  and  clandestine  marriage,  to  which  I  had,  with 

5 


98  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

the  assistance  of  our  mutual  friend,  endeavored  to  persuade  her, 
in  several  instances,  before. 

The  question  now  was,  how  to  effect  this  object,  since  we 
had  no  opportunities  for  communication ;  but,  before  I  took  any 
steps  in  the  matter,  I  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to  deprive  the 
infamous  attorney,  Perkins,  of  his  means  of  power  over  the  un- 
happy family.  I  determined  to  pay  his  legal  charges ;  and 
William  Edgerton,  at  my  request,  readily  undertook  this  part 
of  the  business.  They  were  found  to  be  extortionate,  and  far 
beyond  anything  either  warranted  by  the  practice  or  the  fee- 
bill.  Edgerton  counselled  me  to  resist  the  claim ;  but  the  sub- 
ject was  too  delicate  in  all  its  relations,  and  my  own  affair  with 
Perkins  would  have  made  my  active  opposition  seem  somewhat 
the  consequence  of  malice  and  inveterate  hostility.  I  preferred 
to  pay  the  excess,  wnich  was  done  by  Edgerton,  rather  than 
have  any  further  dispute  or  difficulty  with  one  whom  I  so  much 
despised.  Complete  satisfaction  was  entered  upon  the  records 
of  the  court,  and  a  certified  discharge,  under  the  hand  of  Per- 
kins himself — whicn  ne  gave  with  a  reluctance  full  of  mortifi- 
cation—  was  sent  in  a  blank  envelope  to  Mrs.  Clifford.  She 
was  thus  deprived  of  the  only  excuse — if,  indeed,  such  a  wo- 
man ever  needs  an  excuse  for  wilfulness  —  for  persecuting  her 
nnhappy  daughter  on  the  score  of  the  attorney. 

But  the  possession  of  this  document  effected  no  sort  of  change 
in  her  conduct.  She  pursued  her  victim  with  the  same  old  te- 
nacity. It  was  not  to  favor  Perkins  that  she  strove  for  this 
object :  it  was  to  baffle  me.  That  blind  heart,  which  misguides 
all  of  us  in  turn,  was  predominant  in  her,  and  rendered  her  to- 
tally incapable  of  seeing  the  cruel  consequences  to  her  daughter 
which  her  perseverance  threatened.  Julia  was  now  so  feeble 
as  scarcely  to  leave  her  chamber ;  the  physician  was  daily  in 
attendance ;  and,  though  I  could  not  propose  to  make  use  of 
his  services  in  promoting  a  design  which  would  subject  him  to 
the  reproach  of  the  grossest  treachery,  yet,  without  counsel,  he 
took  it  upon  him  plainly  to  assure  the  mother  that  the  disorder 
of  her  daughter  arose  solely  from  her  mental  afflictions.  He 
went  farther.  Mrs.  Clifford,  whose  garrulity  was  as  notorious 
as  her  vanity  and  folly,  herself  took  occasion,  when  this  was 
told  her,  to  ascribe  the  effect  to  me ;  and,  with  her  own  color 


CRISIS.  99 

ing,  she  continued,  by  going  into  a  long  history  of  our  "  course 
of  wooing."  The  doctor  availed  himself  of  these  statements  to 
suggest  the  necessity  of  a  compromise,  assuring  Mrs.  Clifford 
that  I  was  really  a  more  deserving  person  than  she  thought 
me,  and,  in  short,  that  some  concessions  must  be  made,  if  it  was 
her  hope  to  save  her  daughter's  life. 

"  She  is  naturally  feeble  of  frame,  nervous  and  sensitive,  and 
these  excitements,  pressing  upon  her,  will  break  down  her  con- 
stitution and  her  spirits  together.  Let  me  warn  you,  Mrs.  Clif- 
ford, while  yet  in  season.  Dismiss  your  prejudices  against  this 
young  man,  whether  well  or  ill  founded,  and  permit  your  daugh- 
ter to  marry  him.  Suffer  me  to  assure  you,  Mrs.  Clifford,  that 
such  an  event  will  do  more  toward  her  recovery  than  all  my 
medicine." 

"What,  and  see  him  the  master  of  my  house  —  he,  the  poor 
beggar-boy  that  my  husband  fed  in  charity,  and  who  turned 
from  him  with  ingratitude  in  his  moment  of  difficulty,  and  left 
him  to  be  despoiled  by  his  enemies  1  Never  !  never !  Daugh- 
ter of  mine  shall  never  be  wife  of  his  !  The  serpent !  to  sting 
the  hand  of  his  benefactor  !" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Clifford,  this  prejudice  of  yours,  besides  being 
totally  unfounded,  amounts  to  monomania.  Now,  I  know  some- 
thing of  all  these  matters,  as  you  should  be  aware  ;  and  I  should 
be  sorry  to  counsel  anything  to  you  or  to  your  family  which 
would  be  either  disgraceful  or  injurious.  So  far  from  this  young 
man  being  ungrateful,  neglectful,  or  suffering  your  husband  to 
be  preyed  on  by  enemies,  I  am  of  opinion  that,  if  his  coun- 
sel had  been  taken  in  this  late  unhappy  business,  you  would 
probably  have  been  spared  all  of  the  misery  and  nearly  one 
half  of  the  loss  which  has  been  incurred  by  the  refusal  to 
do  so." 

"  And  so  you,  too,  are  against  us,  doctor  1  You,  too,  believe 
everything  that  this  young  man  tells  you  V 

"  No,  madam ;  I  assure  you,  honestly,  that  I  never  heard  a 
single  word  from  his  lips  in  regard  to  this  subject.  It  is  spoken 
of  by  everybody  but  himself." 

"  Ay  !  ay  !  the  whole  town  knows  it,  and  from  who  else  but 
him,  I  wonder  ?  But  you  needn't  to  talk,  doctor,  on  the  sub- 
ject. My  mind's  made  up.  Edward  Clifford,  while  I  have 


100  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

breath  to  say  '  No,'  and  a  hand  to  turn  the  lock  of  the  doot 
against  him,  shall  never  again  darken  these  doors !" 

The  physician  was  a  man  of  too  much  experience  to  waste 
labor  upon  a  case  so  decidedly  hopeless.  He  knew  that  no  art 
within  his  compass  could  cure  so  thorough  a  case  of  heart-blind- 
ness, and  he  gave  her  up ;  but  he  did  not  give  up  Julia.  He 
whispered  words  of  consolation  into  her  ears,  which,  though 
vague,  were  yet  far  more  useful  than  physic. 

"  Cheer  up,  my  daughter ;  be  of  good  heart  and  faith.  /  am 
sure  that  there  will  be  some  remedy  provided  for  you,  before 
long,  which  will  do  you  good.  I  have  given  the  letter  to  your 
aunt,  and  she  promises  to  do  as  you  wish." 

It  may  be  said,  en  passant,  that  the  billet  sent  to  me  had 
been  covered  in  another  to  my  female  friend  and  Julia's  rela- 
tive ;  and  that  the  doctor,  though  not  unconscious  of  the  agency 
of  this  lady  between  us,  was  yet  guilty  of  no  violation  of  the 
faith  which  is  always  implied  between  the  family  and  the  phy- 
sician. He  might  suspect,  but  he  did  not  know  ;  and  whatever 
might  have  been  his  suspicions,  he  certainly  did  not  have  the 
most  distant  idea  of  that  concession  which  Julia  had  made,  and 
of  the  course  of  conduct  for  which  her  mother's  persecutions 
had  now  prepared  her  mind. 

Mr.  Perkins,  though  deprived  of  his  lien  upon  Mrs.  Clifford, 
by  reason  of  his  claim,  did  not  in  the  least  forego  his  inten- 
tions. His  complaints  and  threatenings  necessarily  ceased  — 
his  tone  was  something  lowered ;  but  he  possessed  a  hold  upon 
this  silly  woman's  prejudices  which  was  far  superior  to  any 
which  he  might  before  have  had  upon  her  fears.  His  hostility 
to  me  was  grateful  to  the  hate  which  she  also  entertained,  and 
which  seemed  to  be  more  thoroughly  infixed  in  her  after  her 
downfall — which,  as  it  has  been  seen,  she  ascribed  to  me; 
chiefly  because  of  my  predictions  that  such  would  be  the  case. 
In  due  proportion  f,o  her  hate  for  me,  was  her  desire  to  baffle 
my  wishes,  even  though  it  might  be  at  the  expense  of  her  own 
daughter's  life.  But  a  vain  mother  has  no  affections  —  none,  at 
least,  worthy  of  the  name,  and  none  which  she  is  not  prepared 
to  discard  at  the  first  requisition  of  her  dearer  self.  Her  hate 
of  me  was  so  extreme  as  to  render  her  blind  to  everything  be- 
sides— her  daughter's  sickness,  the  counsel  of  the  physician, 


CRISIS.  101 

the  otherwise  obvious  vulgarity  and  meanness  of  Perkins,  and 
that  gross  injustice  which  I  had  suffered  at  her  hands  from  the 
beginning,  and  which,  to  many  minds,  might  have  amply  justi- 
fied in  me  the  hostile  feelings  which  she  laid  to  my  charge.  In 
this  blindness  she  precipitated  events,  and  by  her  cruelty  justi- 
fied extremities  in  self-defence.  The  moment  that  Julia  exhib- 
ited some  slight  improvement,  she  was  summoned  to  an  inter- 
view with  Perkins,  and  in  this  interview  her  mother  solemnly 
swore  that  she  should  marry  him.  The  base-minded  suitor 
stood  by  in  silence,  beheld  the  loathing  of  the  maiden,  heard 
her  distinct  refusal,  yet  clung  to  his  victim,  and  permitted  the 
violence  of  the  mother,  without  rebuke  —  that  rebuke  which  the 
true  gentleman  might  have  administered  in  such  a  case,  and 
which,  to  forbear,  was  the  foulest  shame  —  the  rebuke  of  his 
own  decided  refusal  to  participate  in  such  a  sacrifice.  But  he 
was  not  capable  of  this ;  and  Julia,  stunned  and  terrified,  was 
shocked  to  hear  Mrs.  Clifford  appoint  the  night  of  the  following 
Thursday  for  the  forced  nuptials. 

"  She  will  consent — she  shall  consent,  Mr.  Perkins,"  were 
the  vehement  assurances  of  the  mother,  as  the  craven-spirited 
suitor  prepared  to  take  his  leave.  "  I  know  her  better  than  you 
do,  and  she  knows  me.  Do  you  fear  nothing,  but  bring  Mr 

"  (the  divine)  "  along  with  you.  We  shall  put  an  end  to 

this  folly." 

"  Oh,  do  not,  do  not,  mother,  if  you  would  not  drive  me  mad  !" 
was  the  exclamation  of  the  destined  victim,  as  she  threw  her- 
self at  the  feet  of  her  unnatural  parent.  "  You  will  kill  me  to 
wed  this  man!  I  can  not  marry  him — I  can  not  love  him. 
Why  would  you  force  this  matter  upon  me — why  !  why  !" 

"  Why  will  you  resist  me,  Julia  ?  why  will  you  provoke  your 
mother  to  this  degree  1  You  have  only  to  consent  willingly, 
and  you  know  how  kind  I  am." 

"  I  can  not  consent !"  was  the  gasping  decision  of  the  maiden. 

"  You  shall !  you  must !  you  will !" 

"  Never  !  never !  On  my  knees  I  say  it,  mother.  God  will 
witness  what  you  refuse  to  believe.  I  will  die  before  I  consent 
to  marry  where  I  do  not  give  my  heart." 

"  Oh,  you  talk  of  dying,  as  if  it  was  a  very  easy  matter.  But 
you  won't  die.  It's  more  easy  to  say  than  do.  Do  you  come, 


102  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

Mr.  Perkins.  Don't  you  mind  —  don't  you  believe  in  these 
denials,  and  oaths,  and  promises.  It's  the  way  with  all  young 
ladies.  They  all  make  a  mighty  fuss  when  they're  going  to  be 
married ;  but  they're  all  mighty  willing,  if  the  truth  was  known. 
I  ought  to  know  something  about  it.  I  did  just  the  same  as  she 
when  I  was  going  to  marry  Mr.  Clifford ;  yet  nobody  was  more 
willing  than  I  was  to  get  a  husband.  Do  you  come  and  bring 
the  parson ;  she'll  sing  a  different  tune  when  she  stands  up  be- 
fore him,  I  warrant  you." 

"That  shall  never  be,  Mr.  Perkins!"  said  the  maiden  sol- 
emnly, and  somewhat  approaching  the  person  whom  she  ad- 
dressed. "  I  have  already  more  than  once  declined  the  honor 
you  propose  to  do  me.  I  now  repeat  to  you  that  I  will  sooner 
marry  the  grave  and  the  winding-sheet  than  be  your  wife  !  My 
mother  mistakes  me  and  all  my  feelings.  For  your  own  sake, 
if  not  for  mine,  I  beg  that  you  will  not  mistake  them ;  for,  if 
the  strength  is  left  me  for  speech,  I  will  declare  aloud  to  the 
reverend  man  whom  you  are  told  to  bring,  the  nature  of  those 
persecutions  to  which  you  have  been  privy.  I  will  tell  him  of 
the  cruelty  which  I  have  been  compelled  to  endure,  and  which 
you  have  beheld  and  encouraged  with  your  silence." 

Perkins  looked  aghast,  muttered  his  unwillingness  to  prose- 
cute his  suit  under  such  circumstances,  and  prepared  to  take 
his  leave.  His  mutterings  and  apologies  were  all  swallowed 
up  in  that  furious  storm  of  abuse  and  denunciation  which  now 
poured  from  the  lips  of  the  exemplary  mother.  These  we  need 
not  repeat.  Suffice  it  that  the  deep  feelings  of  Julia  —  her 
sense  of  propriety  and  good  taste  —  prevailed  to  keep  her  silent, 
while  her  mother,  still  raving,  renewed  her  assurances  to  th 
pettifogger  that  he  should  certainly  receive  his  wife  at  hei 
hands  on  the  evening  of  the  ensuing  Thursday.  The  unmanly 
suitor  accepted  her  assurances  —  and  took  leave  of  mother  and 
daughter,  with  the  expression  of  a  simpering  hope,  intended 
chiefly  for  the  latter,  that  her  objections  would  resolve  them- 
selves into  the  usual  maidenly  scruples  when  the  appointed 
time  should  arrive  Julia  mustered  strength  enough  to  reply  in 
language  which  brought  down  another  storm  from  her  mother 
upon  her  devoted  head. 

"  Do  not  deceive  ^erkins  —  do  not  let  the  assn- 


CRISIS.  103 

ranees  of  my  mother  deceive  you.  She  does  not  know  me.  I 
can  not  and  will  not  marry  you.  I  will  sooner  marry  the  grave 
—  the  winding-sheet — the  worm!" 

Her  strength  failed  her  the  moment  he  left  the  apartment. 
She  sank  in  a  fainting-fit  upon  the  floor,  and  was  thus  saved 
from  hearing  the  bitter  abuse  which  her  miserable  and  mis- 
guided parent  continued  to  lavish  upon  her,  even  while  under- 
taking the  task  of  her  restoration.  The  evident  exhaustion  of 
her  frame,  her  increasing  feebleness,  the  agony  of  her  mind, 
and  the  possibly  fatal  termination  of  her  indisposition,  did  not 
in  the  least  serve  to  modify  the  violent  and  vexing  mood  of 
this  most  unnatural  woman ! 


104  CONFESSION,   CR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 


CHAPTER   XII 

"GONE    TO    BE   MARRIED." 

THESE  proceedings,  the  tenor  of  which  was  briefly  communi- 
cated to  me  in  a  hurried  note  from  Julia,  despatched  by  the 
hands  of  the  physician,  under  a  cover,  to  the  friendly  aunt,  ren- 
dered it  imperatively  necessary  that,  whatever  we  proposed  to 
do  should  be  done  quickly,  if  we  entertained  any  hope  to  save 
her.  The  tone  of  her  epistle  alarmed  me  exceedingly  in  one 
respect,  as  it  evidently  showed  that  she  could  not  inucli  longer 
save  herself.  Her  courage  was  sinking  with  her  spirits,  which 
were  yielding  rapidly  beneath  the  continued  presence  of  that 
persecution  which  had  so  long  been  acting  upon  her.  She 
began  now  to  distrust  her  own  strength  —  her  very  powers  of 
utterance  to  declare  her  aversion  to  the  proposed  marriage,  if 
ever  the  trial  was  brought  to  the  threatened  issue  before  the 
holy  man. 

"What  am  I  to  do  —  what  say — "  demanded  her  trembling 
epistle,  "should  they  go  so  far?  Am  I  to  declare  the  truth] 
—  can  I  tell  to  strange  ears  that  it  is  my  mother  who  forces  this 
cruel  sacrifice  upon  me  ?  I  dread  I  can  not.  I  fear  that  my 
soul  and  voice  will  equally  fail  me.  I  tremble,  dear  Edward, 
when  I  think  that  the  awful  moment  may  find  me  speechless, 
and  my  consent  may  be  assumed  from  my  silence.  Save  me 
from  this  trial,  dearest  Edward;  for  I  fear  everything  now — 
aiif  fear  myself — my  unhappy  weakness  of  nerve  and  spirit — 
more  than  all.  Do  not  leave  me  to  this  trial  of  my  strength  — 
for  I  have  none.  Save  me  if  you  can !" 

It  may  be  readily  believed  that  I  needed  little  soliciting  to 
exertion  after  this.  The  words  of  this  letter  occasioned  an 
alarm  in  my  mind,  little  less  —  though  of  a  different  kind— 
than  that  which  prevailed  in  hers.  I  knew  the  weakness  of 


GONE  TO   BE  MARRIED. 

hers — I  knew  hers — and  felt  the  apprehension  that  she  might 
fail  at  the  proper  moment,  even  more  vividly  than  she  ex 
pressed  it. 

This  letter  did  not  take  me  by  surprise.  Before  it  was  re- 
ceived, and  soon  after  the  first  with  which  she  had  favored  me, 
hy  the  hands  of  the  friendly  physician,  I  had  begun  my  prep- 
arations with  the  view  to  our  clandestine  marriage.  I  was  only 
now  required  to  quicken  them.  The  obstacle,  on  the  face  of 
it,  was,  comparatively,  a  small  one.  To  get  her  from  a  dwel- 
ling, in  which,  though  her  steps  were  watched,  she  was  not  ex- 
actly a  prisoner,  was  scarcely  a  difficulty,  where  the  lover  and 
the  lady  are  equally  willing. 

Our  mode  of  operations  was  simple.  There  was  a  favorite 
servant — a  negro  —  who  had  been  raised  in  the  family,  had 
been  a  playmate  with  my  poor  deceased  cousin  and  myself,  and 
had  always  been  held  in  particular  regard  by  both  of  us.  He 
was  not  what  is  called  a  house-servant,  but  was  employed  in 
the  yard  in  doing  various  offices,  such  as  cutting  wood,  tending 
the  garden,  going  of  messages,  and  so  forth.  This  was  in  the 
better  days  of  the  Clifford  family.  Since  its  downfall  he  had 
been  instructed  to  look  an  owner,  and,  opportunely,  at  this 
moment,  when  I  was  deliberating  upon  the  process  I  should 
adopt  for  the  extrication  of  his  young  mistress,  he  came  to  me 
to  request  that  I  would  buy  him.  The  presence  of  this  servant 
suggested  to  me  that  he  could  assist  me  materially  in  my  plans. 
Without  suffering  him  to  know  the  intention  which  I  had  formed, 
I  listened  to  his  garrulous  harangue.  A  negro  is  usually  very 
copious,  where  he  has  an  auditor ;  and  though,  from  his  situa- 
tion, he  could  directly  see  nothing  of  the  proceedings  in  the 
house  of  his  ownsr,  yet,  from  his  fellow-servants  he  had  con- 
trived to  gather,  perhaps,  a  very  correct  account  of  the  general 
condition  of  things.  It  appeared  from  his  story  that  the  at- 
tachment of  Miss  Julia  to  myself  was  very  commonly  under- 
stood. The  effort  of  the  mother  to  persuade  her  to  marry  Per- 
kins was  also  known  to  him  ;  but  of  the  arrangement  that  the 
marriage  should  take  place  at  the  early  day  mentioned  in  her 
note,  he  told  me  nothing,  and,  in  all  probability,  this  part  of 
her  proceedings  was  kept  a  close  secret  by  the  wily  dame 
Peter — the  name  of  the  negro  —  went  on  to  add,  that,  loving 

5* 


106  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

me,  and  loving  his  young  mistress,  and  knowing  that  we  loved 
one  another,  and  believing  that  we  should  one  day  be  married, 
he  was  anxious  to  have  me  for  his  future  owner. 

"  I  will  buy  you,  Peter,  on  one  condition." 

"  Wha's  dat,  Mas'  Ned  ?" 

"  That  you  serve  me  faithfully  on  trial,  for  five  days,  with- 
out letting  anybody  know  who  you  serve — that  you  carry  my 
messages  without  letting  anybody  hear  them  except  that  per- 
son to  whom  you  are  sent — and,  if  I  give  you  a  note  to  carry, 
that  you  carry  it  safely,  not  only  without  suffering  anybody  to 
see  the  note  but  the  one  to  whom  I  send  it,  but  without  suffer- 
ing anybody  to  know  or  suspect  that  you've  got  such  a  thing  as 
a  note  about  you." 

The  fellow  was  all  promises ;  and  I  penned  a  billet  to  Julia 
which,  in  few  words,  briefly  prepared  her  to  expect  my  at- 
tendance at  her  house  at  three  in  the  afternoon  of  the  very  day 
when  her  nuptials  were  contemplated.  I  then  proceeded  to  a 
friend — Kingsley — the  friend  who  had  served  me  in  the  meet- 
ing with  Perkins ;  a  bold,  dashing,  frank  fellow,  who  loved 
nothing  better  than  a  frolic  which  worried  one  of  the  parties ; 
and  who,  I  well  knew,  would  relish  nothing  more  than  to  baffle 
Perkins  in  a  love  affair,  as  we  had  already  done  in  one  of 
strife.  To  him  I  unfolded  my  plan  and  craved  his  assistance, 
which  was  promised  instantly.  My  female  friend,  the  relative 
of  Julia,  whose  assistance  had  been  already  given  us,  and 
whose  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Clifford  in  consequence,  had  spiced  her 
determination  to  annoy  her  still  further  whenever  occasion  of- 
fered, was  advised  of  our  plans  ;  and  William  Edgerton  readily 
undertook  what  seemed  to  be  the  most  innocent  part  of  all,  to 
procure  a  priest  to  officiate  for  us,  at  the  house  of  the  lady  in 
question,  and  at  the  appointed  time. 

My  new  retainer,  Peter,  brought  me  due  intelligence  of  the 
delivery  of  the  note,  in  secret,  to  Julia,  and  a  verbal  answer 
from  her  made  me  sanguine  of  success.  The  day  came,  and 
the  hour ;  and  in  obedience  to  our  plan,  my  friend,  Kingsley, 
jrcceeded  boldly  to  the  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Clifford,  just  as  that 
jfady  had  taken  her  seat  at  the  dinner-table,  requesting  to  see 
and  speak  with  her  on  business  of  importance.  The  interview 
was  vouchsafed  him,  though  not  until  the  worthy  lady  had  in- 


GONE  TO   BE  MARRIED.  107 

Btructed  the  servant  to  say  that  she  was  just  then  at  the  dinner- 
table,  and  would  be  glad  if  the  gentleman  would  call  again. 

But  the  gentleman  regretted  that  he  could  not  call  again. 
Ho  was  from  Kentucky,  desirous  of  buying  slaves,  and  must 
leave  town  the  next  morning  for  the  west.  The  mention  of  his 
occupation,  as  Mrs.  Clifford  had  slaves  to  sell,  was  sufficient  to 
persuade  her  to  lay  down  the  knife  and  fork  with  promptness ; 
and  the  servant  was  bade  to  show  the  Kentucky  gentleman 
into  the  parlor.  Our  arrangement  was,  that,  with  the  departure 
of  the  lady  from  the  table  Julia  should  leave  it  also — descend 
the  stairs,  and  meet  me  at  the  entrance. 

Trembling  almost  to  fainting,  the  poor  girl  came  to  me,  and  I 
received  her  into  my  arms,  with  something  of  a  tremor  also,  i 
felt  the  prize  would  be  one  that  I  should  be  very  loath  to  lose ; 
and  joy  led  to  anxiety,  and  my  anxiety  rendered  me  nervous 
to  a  womanly  degree.  But  I  did  not  lose  my  composure  ana 
when  I  had  taken  her  into  my  arms,  I  thought  it  would  be  oniy 
a  prudent  precaution  to  turn  the  key  in  the  outer  door,  an« 
leave  it  somewhere  along  the  highway.  This  I  did,  absolute]-* 
forgetting,  that,  in  thus  securing  myself  against  any  sudder 
pursuit,  I  had  also  locked  up  my  friend,  the  Kentucky  trader. 

Fortune  favored  our  movements.  Our  preparations  had  been 
properly  laid,  and  Edgerton  had  the  .divine  in  waiting.  In  less 
than  half  an  hour  after  leaving  the  house  of  her  parents,  Julia 
and  myself  stood  up  to  be  married.  Pale,  feeble,  sad — the 
poor  girl,  though  she  felt  no  reluctance,  and  suffered  not  the 
most  momentary  remorse  for  the  steps  she  had  taken,  and  was 
about  to  take,  was  yet  necessarily  and  naturally  impressed  with 
the  solemnity  and  the  doubts  which  hung  over  the  event. 
Young,  timid,  artless,  apprehensive,  she  was  unsupported  by 
those  whom  nature  had  appointed  to  watch  over  and  protect 
her ;  and  though  they  had  neglected,  and  would  have  betrayed 
their  trust,  she  yet  could  not  but  feel  that  there  was  an  incom- 
pleteness about  the  affair,  which,  not  even  the  solemn  accents 
of  the  priest,  the  deep  requisitions  of  those  pledges  which  she 
was  called  upon  to  make,  and  the  evident  conviction  which  she 
now  entertained,  that  what  had  been  done  was  necessary  to  be 
done,  for  her  happiness,  and  even  her  life  —  could  entirely  re- 
move. There  was  an  awful  but  sweet  earnestness  in  the  sad, 


108  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

intense  glance  of  entreaty,  with  which  she  regarded  me  when 
I  made  the  final  response.  Her  large  black  eye  dilated,  even 
under  the  dewy  suffusion  of  its  tears,  as  it  seemed  to  say : — 

"  It  is  to  you  now  —  to  you  alone  —  that  I  look  for  that  pro- 
tection, that  happiness  which  was  denied  where  I  had  best  right 
to  look  for  it.  Ah  !  let  me  not  look,  let  me  not  yield  myself  to 
you  in  vain !" 

How  imploring,  yet  how  resigned  was  that  glance  of  tears — 
love  in  tears,  yet  love  that  trusted  without  fear !  It  was  the 
embodiment  of  innocence,  struggling  between  hope  and  doubt, 
and  only  strengthened  for  the  future  by  the  pure,  sweet  faith 
which  grew  out  of  their  conflict.  I  look  back  upon  that  scene, 
I  recall  thaf  glance,  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart  which  is  full  of 
terror  and  terrible  reproach.  Ah !  then,  then,  I  had  no  fear, 
no  thought,  that  I  should  see  that  look,  and  others,  more  sad, 
more  imploring  still,  and  see  them  without  a  corresponding 
faith  and  love  !  I  little  knew,  in  that  brief,  blessed  hour,  how 
rapidly  tlie  olindness  of  the  heart  comes  on,  even  as  the  scale 
over  tfee  eye.0  —  but  such  a  scale  as  no  surgeon's  knife  can  cut 
away, 


BAFFLED  FURY.  109 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

BAFFLED  FURY. 

IN  the  first  gush  of  my  happiness — the  ceremony  being  com- 
pleted, and  the  possession  of  my  treasure  certain  —  I  had  en- 
tirely forgotten  my  Kentucky  friend,  whom  I  had  locked  up,  in 
confidential  tete-a-tete  with  madam,  my  exemplary  mother-in- 
law.  He  was  a  fellow  with  a  strong  dash  of  humor,  and  could 
not  resist  the  impulse  to  amuse  himself  at  the  expense  of  the 
lady,  by  making  an  admirable  scene  of  the  proceeding.  He 
began  the  business  by  stating  that  he  had  heard  she  had  sev- 
eral negroes  whom  she  wished  to  sell — that  he  was  anxious  to 
buy — he  did  not  care  how  many,  and  would  give  the  very  best 
prices  of  any  trader  in  the  market.  At  his  desire,  all  were 
summoned  in  attendance  —  some  three  or  four  in  number,  that 
she  had  to  dispose  of — all  but  the  worthy  Peter,  who,  under 
existing  circumstances,  was  quite  too  necessary  to  my  proceed- 
ings to  be  dispensed  with.  These  were  all  carefully  examined 
by  the  trader.  They  were  asked  their  ages,  their  names*  their 
qualities ;  whether  they  were  willing  to  go  to  Kentucky,  the 
paradise  of  the  western  Indian,  and  so  forth  —  all  those  ques- 
tions which,  in  ordinary  cases,  it  is  the  custom  of  the  purchaser 
to  ask.  They  were  then  dismissed,  and  the  Kentuckian  next 
discussed  with  the  lady  the  subject  of  prices.  But  let  the  ^  or- 
thy  fellow  speak  for  himself : — 

"  I  was  so  cursed  anxious,"  he  said,  "  to  know  whether  you 
had  got  off  and  in  safety,  for  I  was  beginning  to  get  monstrous 
tired  of  the  old  cat,  that  I  jumped  up  every  now  and  then  to 
take  a  peep  out  of  the  front  window.  I  made  an  excuse  to  spit 
on  such  occasions  —  though  sometimes  I  forgot  to  do  so  —  and 
then  I  would  go  back  and  begin  again,  with  something  about 
the  bargain  and  the  terms,  and  whether  the  negroes  were  hon- 
est, and  sound,  and  all  that.  Well,  though  I  looked  out  as  often 


110  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

as  I  well  could  with  civility,  I  saw  nothing  of  you,  and  began 
to  fear  that  something  had  happened  to  unsettle  the  whole  plan ; 
but,  after  a  while,  I  saw  Peter,  with  his  mouth  drawn  back  and 
hooked  up  into  his  ears,  with  his  white  teeth  glimmering  like 
so  many  slips  of  moonshine  in  a  dark  night,  and  I  then  con- 
cluded that  all  was  as  it  should  be.  But  seeing  me  look  out  so 
earnestly  and  often,  the  good  lady  at  length  said : — 

"  '  I  suppose,  sir,  your  horses  are  in  waiting.  Perhaps  you'd 
like  to  have  a  servant  to  mind  them.' 

"  '  No,  ma'am,  I'm  obliged  to  you ;  but  I  left  the  hotel  on 
foot.' 

"  '  Yes,  sir,'  said  she,  « but  I  thought  it  might  be  your  horses, 
seeing  you  so  often  look  out.' 

"  I  could  scarcely  keep  in  my  laughter.  It  did  burst  out  into 
a  sort  of  chuckle;  and,  as  you  were  then  safe  —  I  knew  that 
from  Peter's  jaws — I  determined  to  have  my  own  fun  out  of 
the  old  woman.  So  I  said  —  pretty  much  in  this  sort  of  fashion, 
for  I  longed  to  worry  her,  and  knew  just  how  it  could  be  done 
handsomest  —  I  said  : — 

"  'The  truth  is,  ma'am  —  pardon  me  for  the  slight  —  but  re- 
ally I  was  quite  interested — struck,  as  I  may  say,  by  a  very 
suspicious  transaction  that  met  my  eyes  a  while  ago,  when  I 
first  got  up  to  spit  from  the  window.' 

" '  Ah,  indeed,  sir !  and  pray,  if  I  may  ask,  what  was  it  you 
saw?' 

"  '  Really  very  curious ;  but  getting  up  to  spit,  and  looking 
out  before  I  did  so — necessary  caution,  ma'am — some  persons 
might  be  just  under  the  window,  you  know — ' 

"  *  Yes,  sir,  yes.'  The  old  creature  began  to  look  and  talk 
mighty  eager. 

"  *  An  ugly  habit,  ma'am — that  of  spitting.  We  Kentucki- 
ans  carry  it  to  great  excess.  Foreigners,  I'm  told,  count  it  mon- 
strous vulgar — effect  of  tobacco-chewing,  ma'am — a  deuced  bad 
habit,  I  grant  you,  but  'tis  a  habit,  and  there's  no  leaving  it  off, 
even  if  we  would.  I  don't  think  Kentuckians,  as  a  people,  a 
bit  more  vulgar  than  English,  or  French,  or  Turks,  or  any  other 
respectable  people  of  other  countries.' 

"  '  No,  sir,  certainly  not ;   but  the  transaction — what  you 


BAFFLED   FURY.  Ill 

"  '  Ah,  yes  !  beg  pardon  ;  but,  as  I  was  sayi.ig,  something  re- 
ally quite  suspicious  !  Just  as  I  was  about  to  spit,  when  I  went 
to  the  window,  some  ten  minutes  ago — perhaps  you  did  not 
observe,  but  I  did  not  spit.  Good  reason  for  it,  ma'am — might 
have  done  mischief.' 

"  '  How,  sir  V 

"  *  Ah,  that  brings  me  to  the  question  I  want  to  ask :  any 
handsome  young  ladies  living  about  here,  ma'am? — here,  in 
your  neighborhood  V 

"  '  Why,  yes,  sir,'  answered  the  old  tabby,  with  something 
like  surprise;  'there's  several  —  there's  the  Masons,  just  oppo- 
site ;  the  Bagbys,  next  door  to  them  below,  and  Mr.  Wilford's 
daughter :  all  of  them  would  be  considered  pretty  by  some  per- 
sons. On  the  same  side  with  us,  there's  Mrs.  Freeman  and  her 
two  daughters,  but  the  widow  is  accounted  by  many  the  young- 
est looking  and  prettiest  of  the  whole,  though,  to  my  thinking, 
that's  saying  precious  little  for  any.  Next  door  to  us  is  a  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Gibbs,  who  have  a  daughter,  and  she  is  rather  pretty, 
but  I  don't  know  much  about  them.  It  might  -be  a  mother's 
vanity,  sir,  but  I  think  I  may  be  proud  of  having  a  daughter 
myself,  who  is  about  as  pretty  as  any  of  the  best  among  them ; 
and  that's  saying  a  great  deal  less  for  her  than  might  be  said.' 

"'Ah,  indeed — you  a  daughter,  ma'am?  But  she  is  not 
grown-up,  of  course  —  a  mere  child?' 

"  '  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'  said  the  old  creature,  tickled 
up  to  the  eyes,  and  looking  at  me  with  the  sweetest  smiles ; 
'  though  it  may  surprise  you  very  much,  she  is  not  only  no 
child,  but  a  woman  grown ;  and,  what's  more,  I  think  she  will 
be  made  a  wife  this  very  night.' 

"  '  Egad,  then  I  suspect  she's  not  the  only  one  that's  about  to 
be  made  a  wife  of.  I  suspect  some  one  of  these  young  ladies, 
your  neighbors,  will  be  very  soon  in  the  same  condition.' 

"'Indeed,  sir — pray,  who? — how  do  you  know?'  and  the 
old  tabby  edged  herself  along  the  sofa  until  she  almost  got  jam 
up  beside  me. 

"  '  Well/  said  I,  '  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I'm  deucedly 
suspicious  of  it,  and,  more  than  that,  there's  some  underhand 
work  going  on/ 

"  This  made  her  more  curious  than  ever ;  and  her  hands  and 


112  CONFESSION,   OR   THE   BLIND   HEART. 

feet,  and  indeed  her  whole  body,  got  such  a  fidgeting,  that  I 
fancied  she  began  to  think  of  getting  St.  Vitu's  for  a  bedfellow. 
Her  eagerness  made  her  ask  me  two  or  three  times  what  made 
me  think  so ;  and,  seeing  her  anxiety,  I  purposely  delayed  in 
order  to  worry  her.  I  wished  to  see  how  far  I  could  run  her 
up.  When  I  did  begin  to  explain,  I  went  to  work  in  a  round- 
about way  enough  —  something  thus,  old  Kentuck  —  as  I  began  : 
''Well,  ma'am,  this  tobacco-chewing,  as  I  said  before,  carried 
me,  as  you  witnessed,  constantly  to  the  window.  I  don't  know 
that  I  chew  more  than  many  others,  but  I  know  I  chew  too 
much  for  my  good,  and  for  decency,  too,  ma'am.' 

"  '  Yes,  sir,  yes ;  but  the  young  lady,  and — ' 

"  *  Ah,  yob;  ma'am.  Well,  then,  going  to  the  window  once, 
twice,  or  thrice,  I  could  not  help  but  see  a  young  man  standing 
beneath  it,  evidently  in  Avaiting — very  earnest,  very  watchful 
— seemingly  very  much  interested  and  anxious,  as  if  waiting 
for  somebody/ 

"  '  Is  it  possible  ?'  whispered  the  tabby,  full  of  expectation. 

"  '  Yes,  very  possible,  ma'am  —  veVy  true.  There  he  stood; 
I  could  even  hoar  his  deep-drawn  sighs  —  deep,  long,  as  if  from 
the  very  bottom  of  his  heart.' 

"  '  Was  he  so  very  near,  sir  ?' 

"  '  Just  und^r  the  window  —  going  to  and  fro  —  very  anxious. 
I  was  almost  afraid  1  had  spit  on  him,  he  looked  up  so  hard  — 
so—' 

"  '  What,  sir,  up  at  you  ?  at  —  at  my  windows,  sir  ?' 

"  '  Not  exactly,  ma'am,  that  was  only  my  notion,  for  I  thought 
I  might  have  spit  upon  him,  and  so  wakened  his  anger ;  but,  in- 
deed, he  looked  all  about  him,  as,  indeed,  it  was  natural  that  he 
should,  you  know,  if  he  meditated  anything  that  wa'n't  exactly 
right.  There  was  a  carriage  in  waiting  —  a  close  carriage  —  not 
a  hundred  yards  below,  and — ' 

"  '  Ah,  sir,  do  tell  me  what  sort  of  a  looking  young  gentleman 
was  it  — eh?' 

"  '  Good-looking  fellow  enough,  ma'am — rather  tall,  slender- 
ish,  but  not  so  slender  —  wore  a  black  frock.'  By  this  time  the 
old  creature  was  up  at  the  window  —  her  long,  skinny  neck 
stretched  out  as  far  as  it  could  go. 

"  'Ah !'  said  I,  'ma'am,  you're  quite  too  late,  if  yon  expecl 


BAFFLED   FURY.  113 

to  see  the  sport.  They're  off;  I  saw  the  last  of  them  when  I 
took  my  last  spit  from  the  window.  They  were  then — ' 

"  'But,  sir,  did  he — did  you  say  that  this  person; — the  per- 
son you  spit  on  —  carried  a  young  lady  away  with  him  ?' 

"  '  You  mistake  me,  ma'am — ' 

"  '  Ah  !'  —  she  drew  a  mighty  long  breath  as  if  relieved. 

"  '  I  did  not  spit  upon  him ;  I  only  came  near  doing  it  once 
or  twice.  If  I  hadn't  looked,  I  should  very  probably  have 
divided  my  quid  pretty  equally  between  both  of  them.' 

"  '  Both  !  both  !'  she  almost  screamed.  '  Did  she  go  with  him, 
then?  —  was  there  in  truth  a  young  woman?' 

"  You  never  saw  a  creature  in  such  a  tearing  fidget.  Her 
long  nose  was  nearly  stuck  into  my  face,  and  both  her  hands, 
all  claws  extended,  seemed  ready  for  my  cheeks.  I  felt  a  little 
ticklish,  I  assure  you  ;  but  I  kept  up  my  courage,  determined  to 
see  the  game  out,  and  answered  very  deliberately,  after  I  had 
put  a  fresh  quid  into  my  jaws  : — 

"  '  Ay,  that  she  did,  ma'am,  and  seemed  deuced  glad  to  go, 
as  was  natural  enough.  A  mighty  pretty  girl  she  was,  too ; 
rather  thin,  but  pretty  enough  to  tempt  a  clever  fellow  to  do 
anything.  I  reckon  they're  nigh  on  to  being  man  and  wife  by 
this  time,  let  the  old  people  say  what  they  will.' 

"  But  the  old  put  didn't  wait  to  hear  me  say  all  this.  Before 
the  words  were  well  out  of  my  mouth,  she  gave  a  bounce,  to  the 
bell-rope  first  —  I  thought  she'd  ha' jerked  it  to  pieces — and 
then  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"  '  Excuse  me  for  a  moment,  sir,  if  you  please,'  she  said,  in  a 
considerable  fidget. 

"  *  Certainly,  ma'am,'  says  I,  with  a  great  Kentucky  sort  of 
bow  and  natural  civility ;  and  then  I  could  hear  her  squalling 
from  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  '  Julia ! 
Julia!  Julia!' — but  there  was  no  answer  from  Julia.  Then 
came  the  servants ;  then  came  the  outcry ;  then  she  bounced 
back  into  the  parlor,  and  blazed  out  at  me  for  not  telling  her  at 
once  that  it  was  her  daughter  who  had  been  carried  off,  with- 
out making  so  long  a  story  of  it,  and  putting  in  so  much  talk 
about  tobacco. 

"  'Lord  bless  you,  my  lear  woman  !'  says  I,  innocent  enough, 
was  that  pretty  girl  your  daughter  ?  That  accounts  for  the 


114  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

fellow  looking  up  at  the  window  so  often ;  and  I  to  fancy  that 
it  was  all  because  I  might  have  given  him  a  quid !' 

"  '  You  must  have  seen  her  then  /' 

"  '  Well,  ma'am,'  said  I,  '  I  must  come  again  about  the  negroes. 
1  see  you've  got  your  hands  full.' 

"  And,  with  that,  I  pushed  down  stairs,  while  she  blazed  out 
at  her  husband,  whom  she  called  an  old  fool ;  and  me,  whom 
she  called  a  young  one ;  and  the  negroes,  whom  she  ordered  to 
fly  in  a  hundred  ways  in  the  same  breath  ;  and,  to  make  matters 
worse,  she  seized  her  hat  and  shawl,  and  bounced  down  the 
steps  after  me.  Here  we  were  in  a  fix  again,  that  made  her  a 
hundred  times  more  furious.  The  street-door  was  locked  on  the 
outside,  and  the  key  gone,  and  I  fastened  up  with  the  old  mad 
tabby.  I  tried  to  stand  it  while  the  servants  were  belaboring 
to  break  open,  but  the  storm  was  too  heavy,  and,  raising  a  sash, 
T  went  through  :  and,  in  good  faith,  I  believe  she  bounced 
through  after  me ;  for,  when  I  got  fairly  into  the  street  and 
looked  round,  there  she  went,  bounce,  flounce,  pell-mell,  all  in 
a  rage,  steam  up,  puffing  like  a  porpoise  —  though,  thank  Jupi- 
ter !  she  took  another  course  from  myself.  I  was  glad  to  get 
out  of  her  clutches,  I  assure  you." 

Such  was  Kingsley's  account  of  his  expedition,  told  in  his 
particular  manner ;  and  endued  with  the  dramatic  vitality  which 
he  was  well  able  to  give  it,  it  was  inimitable.  It  needs  but  a 
few  words  to  finish  it.  Mrs.  Clifford,  with  unerring  instinct, 
made  her  way  to  the  house  of  that  friendly  lady  who  had  as- 
sisted our  proceedings.  But  she  came  too  late  for  anything  but 
abuse.  Julia  was  irrevocably  mine.  Bitter  was  the  clamor 
which,  in  our  chamber,  assailed  us  from  below. 

"  Oh,  Edward,  how  shall  I  meet  her  ?"  was  the  convulsive 
speech  of  Julia,  as  she  heard  the  fearful  sounds  of  her  mother's 
voice  —  a  voice  never  very  musical,  and  which  now,  stimulated 
by  unmeasured  rage  —  the  rage  of  a  baffled  and  wicked  woman 
—  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  screams  rather  than  of  human  ac- 
cents. We  soon  heard  the  rush  of  the  torrent  up  stairs,  and  in 
the  direction  of  our  chamber. 

"  Fear  nothing,  Julia ;  her  power  over  you  is  now  at  an  end 
Ton  are  now  mine  —  mine  only — mine  irrevocably!" 

"  Ah,  she  is  still  my  mother !"  gasped  the  lovely  trembler  in 


BAFFLED  FURY. 

my  arms.  A  moment  more,  and  the  old  lady  was  battering  at 
the  door.  I  had  locked  it  within.  Her  voice,  husky  but  sub 
dued,  now  called  to  her  daughter — 

"  Julia !  Julia  !  Julia  !  —  come  out !" 

"  Who  is  there  ?  what  do  you  want  ?"  I  demanded.  I  was 
disposed  to  keep  her  out,  but  Julia  implored  me  to  open  the 
door.  She  had  really  no  strength  to  reply  to  the  summons  of 
the  enraged  woman ;  and  her  entreaty  to  me  was  expressed  in 
a  whisper  which  scarcely  filled  my  own  ears.  She  was  weak 
almost  to  fainting.  I  trembled  lest  her  weakness,  coupled  with 
her  fears,  and  the  stormy  scene  that  I  felt  might  be  reasonably 
anticipated,  would  be  too  much  for  her  powers  of  endurance.  I 
hesitated.  She  put  her  hand  on  my  wrist. 

"  For  my  sake,  Edward,  let  her  in.  Let  her  see  me.  We 
will  have  to  meet  her,  and  better  now — now,  when  I  feel  all 
the  solemnity  of  my  new  position,  and  while  the  pledges  I  have 
just  made  are  most  present  to  my  thoughts.  Do  not  fear  for 
me.  I  am  weak  and  very  feeble,  but  I  am  resolute.  I  feel 
that  I  am  not  wrong." 

She  could  scarcely  gasp  out  these  brief  sentences.  I  urged 
her  not  to  risk  her  strength  in  the  interview. 

"  A  «  you  love  me,  do  as  I  beg  you,"  she  replied,  with  entreat- 
ing earnestness.  "  It  does  not  become  me  to  keep  my  mother, 
under  any  circumstances,  thus  waiting  at  the  door,  and  asking 
entrance." 

Meanwhile,  the  clamors  of  Mrs.  Clifford  were  continued.  Ju- 
lia's aunt  was  there  also,  and  the  controversy  was  hot  and  heavy 
between  them.  Annoyed  as  I  was,  and  apprehensive  for  Julia, 
I  yet  could  not  forbear  laughing  at  the  ludicrousness  of  my  po- 
bition  and  the  whole  scene.  I  began  to  think,  from  the  equal 
violence  of  the  two  ancient  dames  without,  that  they  might 
finally  get  to  blows.  This  was  also  the  fear  of  Julia,  and  an- 
other reason  why  we  should  throw  open  the  door.  I  at  length 
did  so ;  and  soon  had  the  doubtful  satisfaction  of  transferring  to 
myself  all  the  wrath  of  the  disappointed  mother.  She  rushed 
in,  the  moment  the  door  turned  upon  its  hinges,  almost  upsetting 
me  in  the  violence  of  her  onset.  Bounding  into  the  apartment 
with  a  fury  that  was  utterly  beyond  her  own  control,  I  was  led 
to  fear  that  she  might  absolutely  inflict  violence  upon  her  daugh 


lib  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

ter,  who  by  this  time  had  sunk,  in  equal  terror  and  exhaustion, 
upon  a  sofa  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  room.  I  hastily  placed 
myself  between  them,  and  did  not  scruple,  with  extended  hands, 
to  maintain  a  safe  interval  of  space  between  the  two.  I  will 
not  attempt  to  describe  the  tigress  rage  or  the  shrieking  violence 
which  ensued  on  the  part  of  this  veteran  termagant.  It  was 
only  closed  at  length,  when,  Julia  having  fainted  under  the 
storm,  dead  to  all  appearance,  I  picked  up  the  assailant  vi  et 
annis,  and,  in  defiance  of  screams  and  scratches — for  she  did 
not  spare  the  use  of  her  talons — resolutely  transported  her  from 
the  chamber. 


ONI:  DEBT  PAID.  117 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ONE   DEBT    PAID. 

STAGGERING  forward  under  this  burden— a  burden  equally 
active  and  heavy — who  should  I  encounter  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  but  the  liege  lord  of  the  lady  —  my  poor  imbecile  uncle. 
As  soon  as  she  beheld  him  —  foaming  and  almost  unintelligible 
in  her  rage — she  screamed  for  succor  —  cried  "murder"  "rape," 
"robbery,"  and  heaven  knows  what  besides.  A  moment  be- 
fore, though  she  scratched  and  scuffled  to  the  utmost,  she  had 
not  employed  her  lungs.  A  momentary  imprecation  alone  had 
broken  from  her,  as  it  were,  perforce  and  unavoidably.  Now, 
nothing  could  exceed  the  stentorian  tumult  which  her  tongue 
maintained.  She  called  upon  her  husband  to  put  me  to  death  — 
to  tear  me  in  pieces  —  to  do  anything  and  everything  for  the  pun- 
ishing of  so  dreadful  an  offender  as  myself.  In  thus  command- 
ing him,  she  did  not  forbear  uttering  her  own  unmeasured  opin- 
ion of  the  demerits  of  the  man  whose  performances  she  required. 

"  If  you  had  the  spirit  of  a  man,  Clifford  —  if  you  were  not 
a  poor  shoat — you'd  never  have  submitted  so  long  as  you  have 
to  this  viper's  insolence.  And  there  you  stand,  doing  nothing — 
absolutely  still  as  a  stock,  though  you  see  him  beating  your 
wife.  Ah  !  you  monster ! — you  coward!  —  that  I  should  ever 
have  married  a  man  that  wasn't  able  to  protect  me." 

This  is  a  sufficient  sample  of  her  style,  and  not  the  worst.  I 
am  constrained  to  confess  that  some  portions  of  the  good  lady's 
language  would  better  have  suited  the  modes  of  speech  common 
enough  among  the  Grecian  housekeepers  at  the  celebration  of 
the  Eleusinian  mysteries.  I  have  omitted  not  a  few  of  the  bad 
words,  and  forborne  the  repetition  of  that  voluminous  eloquence 
poured  out,  after  the  Billingsgate  fashion,  equally  upon  myself, 
her  daughter,  and  husband.  During  the  vituperation  she  still 
kicked  and  scuffled ;  my  face  suffered,  and  my  eyes  narrowly  et>- 
caped.  But  I  grasped  her  firmly ;  and  when  her  husband,  my 
worthy  uncle,  in  obedience  to  her  orders,  sprang  upon  me,  witb 


118  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BUND   HEART. 

the  bludgeon  which  he  now  habitually  carried,  I  confronted  him 
with  the  lusty  person  of  his  spouse,  and  regret  to  say,  that  the 
first  thwack  intended  for  my  shoulders,  descended  with  some 
considerable  emphasis  upon  hers.  This  increased  her  fury,  and 
redoubled  her  screams.  But  it  did  not  lesson  my  determination, 
or  make  me  change  my  mode  of  proceeding.  I  resolutely  push- 
ed her  before  me.  The  husband  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
and  my  object  was  to  carry  her  down  to  the  lower  story.  The 
stairs  were  narrow,  and  by  keeping  up  a  good  watch,  i  contrived 
to  force  him  to  give  ground,  using  his  spouse  as  a  sort  of  batter- 
ing-raw—  not  to  perpetrate  a  pun  at  the  expense  of  the  genders 
—  which,  I  happened  to  know,  had  always  been  successful  in 
making  him  give  ground  on  all  previous  occasions.  His  habitual 
deference  for  the  dame,  assisted  me  in  my  purpose.  Step  by 
step,  however,  he  disputed  my  advance ;  but  I  was  finally  suc- 
cessful ;  without  any  injury  beyond  that  which  had  been  inflicted 
by  the  talons  of  the  fair  lady,  and  perhaps  a  single  and  slight 
stroke  upon  the  shoulder  from  the  club  of  her  husband,  I  suc- 
ceeded in  landing  her  upon  the  lower  flat  in  safety.  Beyond  a 
squeeze  or  two,  which  the  exigency  of  the  case  made  something 
more  affectionate  than  any  I  should  have  been  otherwise  pleased 
to  bestow  upon  her,  she  suffered  no  hurt  at  my  hands. 

But,  though  willing  to  release  her,  she  was  not  so  willing  her- 
self to  be  released.  When  I  set  her  free,  she  flew  at  me  with 
cat-like  intrepidity ;  and  I  found  her  a  much  more  difficult  cus- 
tomer than  her  husband.  Him  I  soon  baffled.  A  moment  suf- 
ficed to  grapple  with  him  and  wrench  the  stick  from  his  hands, 
and  then,  with  a  moderate  exercise  of  agility,  I  contrived  to 
spring  up  the  stairway  which  I  had  just  descended,  regain  tho 
chamber,  and  secure  the  door,  before  they  could  overtake  or  annoy 
me  with  their  further  movements.  My  wife's  aunt,  meanwhile, 
had  been  busy  with  her  restoratives.  Julia  was  now  recovering 
from  the  fainting  fit ;  and  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  from 
one  of  the  servants  that  the  baffled  enemy  had  gone  off  in  a  fury 
*hat  made  their  departure  seem  a  flight  rather  than  a  mere  retreat. 

I  should  have  treated  the  whole  event  with  indifference  —  their 
rage  and  their  regard  equally  —  but  for  my  suffering  and  sensitive 
wife.  Wronged  as  she  had  been,  and  so  persecuted  as  to  render 
all  her  subsequent  conduct  justifiable,  she  yet  forgot  none  of  he* 


ONE   DEBT   PAID.  119 

filial  obligations  ;  and,  in  compliance  with  her  earnest  entreaties, 
I  had  already,  the  very  day  after  this  conflict,  prepared  an  elab- 
orate and  respectful  epistle  to  both  father  and  mother,  when  an 
event  took  place  of  startling  solemnity,  which  was  calculated  to 
subdue  my  anger,  and  make  the  feelings  of  my  wife,  if  possible^ 
more  accessible  than  ever  to  the  influences  of  fear  and  sorrow. 
Only  three  days  from  uu*  marriage  had  elapsed,  when  her  father 
was  stricken  speechless  in  the  street.  lie  was  carried  home  for 
dead.  I  have  already  hinted  that,  months  before,  and  just  after 
the  threatened  discovery  of  those  fraudulent  measures  by  which 
he  lost  his  fortune,  his  mind  had  become  singularly  enfeebled  ; 
his  memory  failing,  and  all  his  faculties  of  judgment  —  never  very 
strong  —  growing  capricious,  or  elrfe  obtuse  and  unobserving. 
These  were  the  symptoms  of  a  rapid  physical  change,  the  catas- 
trophe of  which  was  at  hand.  How  far  the  excitement  growing 
out  of  his  daughter's  flight  and  marriage  may  have  precipitated 
this  result,  is  problematical.  It  may  be  said,  in  this  place,  that 
my  wife's  mother  charged  it  all  to  my  account.  I  was  pronounced 
the  murderer  of  her  husband.  On  this  head  I  did  not  reproach 
myself.  It  was  necessary,  however,  that  a  reconciliation  should 
take  place  between  the  father  and  his  child.  To  this  I  had,  of 
course,  no  sort  of  objection.  But  it  will  scarce  be  believed  that 
the  miserable  woman,  her  mother,  opposed  herself  to  their  meeting 
with  the  utmost  violence  of  her  character.  Nothing  but  the 
outcry  of  the  family  and  all  its  friends  —  including  the  excellent 
physician  whose  secret  services  had  contributed  so  much  toward 
my  happiness — compelled  her  to  give  way,  though  still  un- 
graciously, to  the  earnest  entreaty  of  her  daughter  for  permission 
to  see  her  father  before  he  died  !  and  even  then,  by  the  death- 
bed of  the  unhappy  and  almost  unconscious  man,  she  recom- 
menced the  scene  of  abuse  and  bitter  reproach,  which,  however 
ample  the  reader  and  hearer  may  have  already  found  it,  it 
appears  she  had  left  unfinished.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  a 
furious  tirade,  directed  against  myself,  chiefly,  and  Julia,  in  part, 
that  the  spasms  of  death,  unperceived  by  the  mother,  passed 
over  the  contracted  muscles  of  the  father's  face.  The  bitter 
speech  of  the  blind  woman  —  blind  of  heart  —  was  actually  fin- 
ished after  death  had  given  the  final  blow  to  the  victim.  Of  this 
she  had  no  suspicion,  until  instructed  by  the  piercing  shrieks  of 
IKT  daughter,  who  fell  swooning  u^on  the  corse  before  her. 


120  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND    HEABT. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

HONEYMOON    PERIOD. 

IT  was  supposed  by  Julia  and  certain  of  her  friends  that  an 
event  so  solemn,  so  impressive,  and  so  unexpected,  as  the  death 
of  Mr.  Clifford,  would  reasonably  affect  the  mind  of  his  widow  ; 
and  the  concessions  which  I  had  meditated  to  address  to  herr 
self  and  her  late  husband  were  now  so  varied  as  to  apply  solely 
to  herself.  I  took  considerable  pains  in  preparing  my  letter, 
with  the  view  to  soften  her  prejudices  and  asperities,  as  well  as 
to  convince  her  reason.  There  was  one  suggestion  which  Julia 
was  disposed  to  insist  on,  to  which,  however,  I  was  singularly 
averse.  In  the  destitution  of  Mrs.  Clifford,  her  diminished  and 
still  diminishing  resources,  not  to  speak  of  her  loneliness,  she 
thought  that  I  ought  to  tender  her  a  home  with  us.  Had  she 
been  any  other  than  the  captious,  cross-grained  creature  that 
she  was  —  had  her  misfortunes  produced  only  in  part  their 
legitimate  and  desirable  effects  of  subduing  her  perversity  — 
I  should  have  had  no  sort  of  objection.  But  I  knew  her  impe- 
rious and  unreasonable  nature ;  and  I  may  here  add,  that,  by 
this  time,  I  knew  something  of  my  own  :  I  was  a  man  of  despotic 
character.  The  constant  conflicts  which  I  had  had  from  boy- 
hood, resulting  as  they  had  done  in  my  frequent  successes  and 
final  triumph,  had,  naturally  enough,  made  me  dictatorial.  San- 
guine in  temperament,  earnest  in  character,  resolute  in  impulse, 
I  was  necessarily  arbitrary  in  mood.  It  was  not  likely  that 
Mrs.  Clifford  would  forget  her  waywardnesses,  and  it  was  just 
as  unreasonable  that  I  should  submit  to  her  insolences.  Be 
sides,  one's  home  ought  to  be  a  very  sacred  place.  It  is  neces- 
sary that  the  peace  there  should  compensate  and  console  for  the 
strifes  without.  To  hope  for  this  in  any  household  where  there 
is  more  than  one  master,  would  be  worse  than  idle.  Nay,  even 
if  there  were  peace,  the  chances  are  still  great  that  there  would 


HONEYMOON   PERIOD.  121 

oe  some  lack  of  propriety.  Domestic  regulations  would  become 
inutile.  Children  and  servants  would  equally  fail  of  duty  and 
improvement  under  conflicting  authorities;  and  all  the  sweet 
social  harmonies  of  family  would  be  jarred  away  by  misunder- 
standings if  not  bickerings,  leading  to  coldness,  suspicion,  and 
irremediable  jealousies.  These  things  seemed  to  threaten  me 
from  the  first  moment  when  Julia  submitted  to  me  her  desire 
that  her  mother  should  be  invited  to  take  up  her  abode  with  us. 
I  reasoned  with  her  against  it ;  suggested  all  the  grounds  of  ob- 
jection which  I  really  felt ;  and  reviewed  at  length  the  long  his- 
tory of  our  connection  from  my  childhood  up,  which  had  been 
distinguished  by  her  constant  hostility  and  hate.  "How,"  I 
asked,  "  can  it  be  hoped  that  there  will  be  any  change  for  the 
better  now  ?  She  is  the  same  woman,  I  the  same  man  !  It  is 
not  reasonable  to  think  that  the  result  of  our  reunion  will  be 
other  than  it  has  been."  But  Julia  implored. 

"  I  know  what  you  say  is  reasonable — is  just ;  but,  dear  Ed- 
ward, she  is  my  mother,  and  she  is  alone." 

I  yielded  to  her  wishes.  Could  I  else  ?  My  letter  to  her 
mother  concluded  with  a  respectful  entreaty  that  she  would  take 
apartments  in  our  dwelling,  and  a  chair  at  our  table,  and  lessen, 
to  this  extent,  the  expenses  of  her  own  establishment. 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  frenzied  woman  to  Julia's  aunt,  to 
whom  the  charge  of  presenting  the  communication  was  commit- 
ted— "what!  eat  the  bread  of  that  insolent  and  ungrateful 
wretch  ?  Never  !  never  !" 

She  flung  the  epistle  from  her  with  disdain ;  and,  to  confess 
a  truth,  though,  on  Julia's  account,  I  should  have  wished  a 
reconciliation,  I  was  by  no  means  sorry,  on  my  own,  that  such 
was  her  ultimatum.  I  gave  myself  little  further  concern  about 
this  foolish  person,  and  was  happy  to  see  that  in  a  short  time 
my  wife  appeared  to  recover  from  the  sadness  and  stupor  which 
the  death  of  her  father  and  the  temper  of  her  mother  had  natu- 
rally induced.  The  truth  is,  she  had,  for  so  long  a  period  pre- 
viously to  her  marriage,  suffered  from  the  persecutions  of  the 
latter,  and  moaned  over  the  shamo,  and  imbecility  of  the  former, 
that  her  present  situation  was  one  of  great  relief,  and,  for  a 
while,  of  comparative  happiness. 

We  lived  in  a  pleasant  cottage  in  the  suburbs.  A  broad  and 

G 


122  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

placid  lake  spread  out  before  our  dwelling ;  and  its  tiny  billows, 
under  the  pressure  of  the  sweet  southwestern  breezes,  beat  al- 
most against  our  very  doors.  Green  and  shady  groves  envi- 
roned us  on  three  sides,  and  sheltered  us  from  the  intrusive 
gaze  of  the  highway ;  and  never  was  a  brighter  collection  of 
flowers  and  blossoms  clustered  around  any  habitation  of  hope 
and  happiness  before.  I  rented  the  cottage  on  moderate  terms, 
and  furnished  it  neatly,  but  simply,  as  became  iny  resources. 
All  things  considered,  the  prospect  was  fair  and  promising  be- 
fore us.  Julia  had  few  toils,  and  ample  leisure  for  painting  and 
music,  for  both  of  which  she  had  considerable  taste ;  for  the  for- 
mer art,  in  particular,  she  possessed  no  small  talent. 

Our  city,  indeed,  seemed  one  peculiarly  calculated  for  these 
arts.  Our  sky  was  blue  —  deeply,  beautifully  blue ;  our  climate 
mild  and  delightful.  Our  people  were  singularly  endowed  with 
the  genius  for  graceful  and  felicitous  performances.  Music  was 
an  ordinary  attribute  of  the  great  mass ;  and  in  no  community 
under  the  sun  was  there  such  an  overflow  of  talent  in  painting 
and  sculpture.  It  was  the  grand  error  of  our  wise  heads  to 
fancy  that  our  city  could  be  made  one  of  great  trade ;  and,  in  a 
vain  struggle  to  give  it  some  commercial  superiority  over  its 
neighbor  communities,  the  wealth  of  the  people  was  thrown 
away  upon  projects  that  yielded  nothing;  and  the  arts  were 
left  neglected  in  a  region  which  might  have  been  made — and 
might  still  be  made  —  if  not  exclusively,  at  least  pre-eminently 
their  own.  The  ordinary  look  of  the  women  was  beauty,  the 
ordinary  accent  was  sweetness.  The  soft  moonlight  evenings 
were  rendered  doubly  harmonious  by  the  tender  tinkling  of  the 
wandering  guitar,  or  the  tones  of  the  plaintive  flute;  while, 
from  every  third  dwelling,  rose  the  more  stately  but  scarcely 
sweeter  melodies  stricken  by  pliant  fingers  from  the  yielding 
soul  of  the  divine  piano.  The  tastes  even  of  the  mechanic  were 
refined  by  this  language,  the  purest  in  which  passion  ever 
speaks;  and  an  ambition  —  the  result  of  the  highest  tone  of 
aristocratic  influence  upon  society — prompted  his  desires  to 
purposes  and  a  position  to  which  in  other  regions  he  is  not  often 
permitted  to  aspire.  These  influences  were  assisted  by  the 
peculiar  location  of  our  city  —  by  its  suburban  freedom  from  all 
closeness ;  its  innumerable  gardens,  the  appanage  of  every 


HONEYMOON  PEBIOD.  12S 

household;  its  piazzas,  verandahs,  porches;  its  broad  and  min- 
strel-wooing rivers;  and  the  majestic  and  evergreen  forests, 
which  grew  and  gathered  around  us  on  every  hand.  If  ever 
there  was  a  city  intended  by  nature  more  particularly  than  an- 
other for  the  abodes  and  the  offices  of  art,  it  was  ours.  It  will 
become  so  yet :  the  mean,  money-loving  soul  of  trade  can  not 
always  keep  it  from  its  destinies.  We  may  never  see  it  in  our 
day ;  but  so  surely  as  we  live,  and  as  it  shall  live,  will  it  be- 
come an  Athens  in  our  land — a  city  of  empire  by  the  sea, 
renowned  for  genius  and  taste  —  and  the  chosen  retreat  of 
muses,  younger  and  more  vigorous,  and  not  less  lovely,  than 
the  old ! 

Julia  was  in  a  very  high  degree  impregnated  with  the  taste 
and  desire  for  art  which  seemed  so  generally  the  characteristic 
of  our  people.  I  speak  not  now  of  the  degree  of  skill  which 
she  possessed.  Her  teacher  was  a  foreigner,  and  a  mere  me- 
chanic; but,  while  he  taught  her  only  the  ordinary  laws  of 
painting,  her  natural  endowment  wrought  more  actively  in  favor 
of  her  performances.  She  soon  discovered  how  much  she  could 
learn  from  the  little  which  her  teacher  knew ;  and  when  she 
made  this  discovery,  she  ceased  to  have  any  use  for  his  assist- 
ance. Books,  the  study  of  the  old  masters,  and  such  of  the  new 
as  were  available  to  her,  served  her  infinitely  more  in  the  pros- 
ecution of  her  efforts ;  and  these  I  stimulated  by  all  means  in 
my  power  :  for  I  esteemed  her  natural  endowments  to  be  very 
high,  a*nd  very  well  knew  how  usual  ft  is  for  young  ladies,  after 
marriage,  to  give  up  those  tastes  and  accomplishments  which 
had  distinguished  and  heightened  their  previous  charms.  It 
was  quite  enough  that  I  admired  the  art,  and  tasked  her  to  its 
pursuit,  to  make  her  cling  to  it  with  alacrity  and  love.  We 
wandered  together  early  in  the  morning  and  at  the  coming  on 
of  evening,  over  all  the  sweet,  enticing  scenes  which  were  fre- 
quent in  our  suburbs.  Environed  by  two  rivers,  wide  and  clear, 
with  deep  forests  beyond  —  a  broad  bay  opening  upon  the  sea 
in  front — lovely  islands  of  gleaming  sand,  strewn  at  pleasant 
intervals,  seeming,  beneath  the  transparent  moonlight,  the  cho- 
sen places  of  retreat  for  naiads  from  the  deep  and  fairies  from 
the  grove — there  was  no  lack  of  objects  to  delight  the  eye  and 
woo  the  pencil  to  its  performances.  Besides,  never  was  blue 


12-1  CONFESSION,   OE  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

sky,  and  gold-and-purple  sunset,  more  frequent,  more  rich,  more 
shifting  in  its  shapes  and  colors,  from  beauty  to  superior  beauty, 
than  in  our  latitude.  The  eye  naturally  turned  up  to  it  with  a 
sense  of  hunger  ;  the  mind  naturally  felt  the  wish  to  record  such 
hues  and  aspects  for  the  use  of  venerating  love ;  and  the  eager 
spirit,  beginning  to  fancy  the  vision  wrought  according  to  its 
own  involuntary  wish,  seemed  spontaneously  to  cry  aloud,  in 
the  language  of  the  artist,  on  whom  the  consciousness  of  genius 
was  breaking  with  a  sun-burst  for  the  first  time,  "  I,  too,  am  a 
painter!" 

J  ul  la's  studio  was  soon  full  of  beginnings.  Fragmentary  land- 
scapes were  all  about  her.  Like  most  southrons,  she  did  not 
like  to  finish.  There  is  an  impatience  of  toil  —  of  its  duration 
at  least  —  in  the  southern  mind,  which  leaves  it  too  frequently 
unperforming.  This  is  a  natural  characteristic  of  an  excitable 
people.  People  easily  moved  are  always  easily  diverted  from 
their  objects.  People  of  very  vivid  fancy  are  also  very  capri- 
cious. There  is  yet  another  cause  for  the  non-performance  of 
the  southern  mind  —  its  fastidiousness.  In  a  high  state  of  social 
refinement,  the  standards  of  taste  become  so  very  exacting,  that 
the  mind  prefers  not  to  attempt,  rather  than  to  offend  that  criti- 
cal judgment  which  it  feels  to  be  equally  active  in  its  analysis 
and  rigid  in  its  requisitions.  Genius  and  ambition  must  be  in- 
dependent of  such  restraints.  "Be  bold,  be  bold,  be  bold!"  is 
the  language  of  encouragement  in  Spenser ;  and  when  he  says, 
at  the  end,  "  Be  not  too  bold,"  we  are  to  consider  the  qualifica- 
tion as  simply  a  quiet  caution  not  to  allow  proper  courage  to 
rush  into  rashness  and  insane  license.  The  genius  that  suffers 
itself  to  be  fettered  by  the  precise,  will  perhaps  learn  how  to 
polish  marble,  but  will  never  make  it  live,  and  will  certainly 
never  live  very  long  itself ! 

With  books  and  music,  painting  and  flowers,  we  passed  the 
happy  moments  of  the  honeymoon.  I  yielded  as  little  of  my- 
self and  my  mind  to  my  office  and  clients,  in  that  period,  as  I 
possibly  could.  My  cottage  was  my  paradise.  My  habits,  as 
might  be  inferred  from  my  history,  were  singularly  domestic. 
Doomed,  as  I  had  been,  from  my  earliest  years,  to  know  neither 
friends  nor  parents ;  isolated,  in  my  infancy,  from  all  those  ten- 
der ties  which  impress  upon  the  heart,  for  all  succeeding  years, 


HONEYMOON  PERIOD.  125 

tokens  of  the  most  endearing  affection ;  denied  the  smiles  of 
those  who  yet  filled  my  constant  sight — my  life  was  a  long 
yearning  for  things  of  love — for  things  to  love!  While  the 
struggle  continued  between  Julia's  parents  and  myself,  though 
confiding  in  her  love,  I  had  yet  no  confidence  in  my  own  hope 
to  realize  and  to  secure  it.  Now  that  it  was  mine — mine,  at 
last — I  grew  uxorious  in  its  contemplation.  Like  the  miser,  I 
had  my  treasure  at  home,  and  I  hastened  home  to  survey  it 
with  precisely  the  same  doubts,  and  hopes,  and  fears,  which  the 
disease  of  avarice  prompts  in  the  unhappy  heart  of  its  victim 
To  this  disease,  in  chief,  I  have  to  attribute  all  my  future  sor 
rows ;  but  the  time  is  not  yet  for  that.  It  is  my  joys  now  that 
I  have  to  contemplate  and  describe.  How  I  dwelt,  and  how  I 
dreamed !  how  I  seemed  to  tread  on  air,  in  the  unaccustomed 
fullness  of  my  spirit !  how  my  whole  soul,  given  up  to  the  one 
pursuit,  I  fondly  fancied  had  secured  its  object!  I  fancied — 
nay,  for  the  time,  I  was  happy !  Surely,  I  was  happy  ! 


126  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEABT. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE    HAPPY    SEASON. 

SURELY,  I  then  was  happy !  I  can  not  deceive  myself  as  tc 
the  character  of  those  brief  Eden  moments  of  security  and  peace. 
Even  now,  lone  as  I  appear  in  the  sight  of  others — degraded 
as  I  feel  myself —  even  now  I  look  back  on  our  low  white  cot- 
tage, by  the  shores  of  that  placid  lake  —  its  little  palings  gleam- 
ing sweetly  through  its  dense  green  foliage — recall  those  happy, 
halcyon  days,  and  feel  that  we  both,  for  the  time,  had  attained 
the  secret  —  the  secret  worth  all  the  rest  —  of  an  enjoyment 
actually  felt,  and  quite  as  full,  flush,  and  satisfactory,  as  it  had 
seemed  in  the  perspective.  Possession  had  taken  nothing  of 
the  gusto  from  hope.  Truth  had  not  impaired  a  single  beauty 
of  the  ideal.  I  looked  in  Julia's  face  at  morning  when  I  awa- 
kened, and  her  loveliness  did  not  fade.  My  lips,  that  drank 
sweetness  from  hers,  did  not  cease  to  believe  the  sweetness  to 
be  there  —  as  pure,  as  warm,  as  full  of  richness,  as  when  I  had 
only  dreamed  of  their  perfections.  Our  days  and  nights  were 
pure,  and  gentle,  and  fond.  One  twenty-four  hours  shall  speak 
for  all. 

When  we  rose  at  morning,  we  prepared  for  a  ramble,  either 
into  the  woods,  or  along  the  banks  of  the  lovely  river  that  lay 
west  of,  and  at  a  short  distance  only  from,  our  dwelling.  There, 
wandering,  as  the  sun  rose,  we  imparted  to  each  other's  eyes 
the  several  objects  of  beauty  which  his  rising  glance  betrayed. 
Sometimes  we  sat  beneath  a  tree,  while  she  hurriedly  sketched 
a  clump  of  woods,  the  winding  turn  of  the  shore,  its  occasional 
crescent  form  or  abrupt  headland,  as  they  severally  appeared 
in  a  new  light,  and  at  a  happy  moment  of  timo,  beneath  our 
vision.  The  songs  of  pleasant  birds  allured  us  on  •  the  sweet 
scent  of  pines  and  myrtle  refreshed  us ;  and  a  gay,  wholesome, 
hearty  spirit  was  awakened  in  our  mutual  bosoms,  as  thus, 


THE   HAPPY  SEASON.  127 

after  day,  while,  like  the  day,  our  hearts  were  in  their  first 
youth,  we  resorted  to  the  ever- fresh  mansions  of  the  sovereign 
Nature.  This  hahit  produces  purity  of  feeling,  and  continues 
the  habit  in  its  earliest  simplicity.  The  childlike  laws  which 
it  encourages  and  strengthens  are  those  which  virtue  most  loves, 
and  which  strained  forms  of  society  are  the  first  to  overthrow. 
The  pure  tastes  of  youth  are  those  which  are  always  most  dear 
to  humanity ;  and  love  is  easy  of  access,  and  peace  not  often  a 
stranger  to  the  mind,  where  these  tastes  preserve  their  ascen- 
dency. 

My  profession  was  something  at  variance  with  these  tastes 
and  feelings.  The  very  idea  of  law,  which  presupposes  the 
frequent  occurrence  of  injustice,  engenders,  by  its  practice,  a 
habit  of  suspicion.  To  throw  doubt  upon  the  fact,  and  defeat 
and  prevent  convictions  of  the  probable,  are  habits  which  law- 
yers soon  acquire.  This  is  natural  from  the  daily  encounter 
with  bad  and  striving  men — men  who  employ  the  law  as  an 
instrument  by  which  to  evade  right,  or  inflict  wrong ;  and,  this 
apart,  the  acute  mind  loves,  for  its  own  sake,  the  very  exercise 
of  doubt,  by  which  ingenuity  is  put  in  practice,  and  an  adroit 
discrimination  kept  constantly  at  work. 

I  was  saved,  however,  from  something  of  this  danger.  The 
injustice  which  I  had  been  subjected  to,  in  my  own  boyhood, 
had  filled  me  with  the  keenest  love  for  the  right.  The  idea  of 
injustice  aroused  my  sternest  feelings  of  resistance.  I  had 
adopted  the  law  as  a  profession  with-  something  of  a  patriotic 
feeling.  I  felt  that  I  could  make  it  an  instrument  for  putting 
down  the  oppressor,  the  wrong-doer  —  for  asserting  right,  and 
maintaining  innocence !  I  had  my  admiration,  too,  at  that 
period,  of  that  logical  astuteness,  that  wonderful  tenacity  of 
hold  and  pursuit,  and  discrimination  of  attribute  and  subject, 
which  distinguish  this  profession  beyond  all  others,  and  seem 
to  confirm  the  assumption  made  in  its  behalf,  by  which  it  has 
been  declared  the  perfection  of  human  reason.  It  will  not  be 
subtracting  anything  from  this  estimate,  if  I  express  my  con- 
viction, founded  upon  my  own  experience,  that,  though  such 
may  be  the  character  of  the  law  as  an  abstract  science,  it  de- 
serves no  such  encomium  as  it  is  ordinarily  practised.  Lawyer* 
are  too  commonly  profound  only  in  the  technicalities  of  the 


128  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BUND    HEART. 

profession  ;  and  a  very  keen  study  and  acquaintance  with  these 
—certainly  a  too  great  reliance  upon  them,  and  upon  the  dicta 
of  other  lawyers — leads  to  a  dreadful  departure  from  elemen- 
tary principles,  and  a  most  woful  disregard,  if  not  ignorance,  of 
those  profouuder  sources  of  knowledge  without  which  laws  mul- 
tiply at  the  expense  of  reason,  and  not  in  support  of  it ;  and 
lawyers  may  be  compared  to  those  ignorant  captains  to  whom 
good  ships  are  intrusted,  who  rely  upon  continual  sounding  to 
grope  their  way  along  the  accustomed  shores.  Let  them  once 
leave  the  shores,  and  get  heyond  the  reach  of  their  plummets, 
and  the  good  ship  must  owe  its  safety  to  fortune  and  the  favor 
of  the  winds,  for  further  skill  is  none. 

I  did  not  find  the  practice  of  the  law  affect  my  taste  for  do- 
mestic pleasures ;  on  the  contrary,  it  stimulated  and  preserved 
them.  After  toiling  a  whole  morning  in  the  courts,  it  was  a 
sweet  reprieve  to  be  allowed  to  hurry  off  to  my  quiet  cottage, 
and  hear  the  one  dear  voice  of  my  household,  and  examine  the 
quiet  pictures.  These  never  stunned  me  with  clamors ;  I  was 
never  pestered  by  them  to  determine  the  meum  et  tuum  between 
noisy  disputants,  neither  of  whom  is  exactly  right.  There, 
my  eye  could  repose  on  the  sweetest  scenes — scenes  of  beauty 
and  freshness — the  shady  verdure  of  the  woods,  the  rich  va- 
riety of  flowers,  and  pure,  calm,  transparent  waters,  hallowed 
by  the  meek  glances  of  the  matron  moon.  No  creature  could 
have  been  more  gentle  than  my  wife.  She  met  me  with  a  com- 
posed smile,  equally  bright  and  meek.  I  never  heard  a  com- 
plaint from  her  lips.  The  evils  of  which  other  men  complain 
— the  complaints  about  servants,  scoldings  about  delay  or  din- 
ner— never  reached  my  ears.  The  kindest  solicitude  that,  in 
my  fatigue,  or  amid  the  toils  of  a  business  of  which  wives  can 
know  little,  and  for  which  they  make  too  little  allowance,  there 
should  be  nothing  at  home  to  make  me  irritable  or  give  me  dis- 
quiet, distinguished  equally  her  sense  and  her  affection.  If  it 
became  her  duty  to  communicate  any  unpleasant  intelligence— 
any  tidings  which  might  awaken  anger  or  impatience  —  she 
carefully  waited  for  the  proper  time,  when  the  excitement  of 
my  blood  was  overcome,  and  repose  of  blood  and  brain  had  nat- 
urally brought  about  a  kindred  composure  of  mind. 

Our  afternoons  were  usually  spent  in  the  shade  of  the  garden 


THE   HAPPY  SEASON.  129 

or  piazza.  Sometimes,  I  sat  by  her  while  she  was  sketching. 
At  others,  she  helped  me  to  dress  and  train  my  garden-vines. 
Now  and  then  we  renewed  our  rambles  of  the  morning,  heed- 
fully  observing  the  different  aspects  of  the  same  scenes  and 
object,  which  had  then  delighted  us,  under  the  mellowing 
smiles  of  the  sun  at  its  decline.  With  books,  music,  and  chess, 
our  evenings  passed  away  without  our  consciousness  j  and  day 
melted  into  night,  and  night  departed  and  gave  place  to  the 
new-born  day,  as  quietly  as  if  life  had,  in  truth,  become  to  us  a 
great  instrument  of  harmony,  which  bore  us  over  the  smooth 
seas  of  Time,  to  the  gentle  beating  of  fairy  and  unseen  min- 
strelsy. Truly,  then,  we  were  two  happy  children.  The  older 
children  of  this  world,  stimulated  by  stronger  tastes  and  more 
lofty  indulgences,  may  smile  at  the  infantile  simplicity  of  such 
resources  and  modes  of  enjoyment.  They  were  childish,  but 
perhaps  not  the  less  wise  for  that.  Infancy  lies  very  near  to 
heaven.  Childhood  is  a  not  unfit  study  for  angels ;  and  happy 
were  it  for  us  could  we  maintain  the  hearts  and  the  hopes  of  that 
innocent  period  for  a  longer  day  within  our  bosoms.  In  our 
world  we  grow  too  fast,  too  presumptuously.  We  live  on  too 
rich  food,  moral  and  intellectual.  The  artifices  of  our  tastes 
prove  most  fatally  the  decline  of  our  reason.  But,  for  us — we 
two  linked  hearts,  so  segregated  from  all  beside  —  we  certainly 
lived  the  lives  of  children  for  a  while.  But  we  were  not  to 
live  thus  always.  In  some  worldly  respects,  I  was  still  a  child : 
I  cared  little  for  its  pomps,  its  small  honors,  its  puny  efforts,  its 
tinselly  displays.  But  I  had  vices  of  mind — vices  of  my  own 
—  sufficient  to  embitter  the  social  world  where  all  seems  now 
so  sweet — where  all,  in  truth,  was  sweet,  and  pure,  and  worthy 
— and  which  might,  under  other  circumstances,  have  been  kept 
BO  to  the  last.  I  am  now  to  describe  a  change ! 

6» 


180  CONFESStON,  OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

THE    EVIL    PRINCIPLE. 

HERETOFORE,  I  have  spoken  of  the  blind  hearts  of  others  - 
of  Mr.  Clifford  and  his  wilful  wife — I  have  yet  said  little  to 
show  the  blindness  of  my  own.  This  task  is  now  before  me, 
and,  with  whatever  reluctance,  the  exhibition  shall  resolutely 
be  made.  I  have  described  a  couple  newly  wed — eminently 
happy — blessed  with  tolerable  independence — resources  from 
without  and  within  —  dwelling  in  the  smiles  of  Heaven,  and 
not  uncheered  by  the  friendly  countenance  of  man.  I  am  to 
display  the  cloud,  which  hangs  small  at  first,  a  mere  speck,  but 
which  is  to  grow  to  a  gloomy  tempest  that  is  to  swallow  up 
the  loveliness  of  the  sky,  and  blacken  with  gloom  and  sorrow 
the  fairest  aspects  of  the  earth.  I  am  to  show  the  worm  in  the 
bud  which  is  to  bring  blight — the  serpent  in  the  garden  which 
is  to  spoil  the  Eden.  Wo,  beyond  all  other  woes,  that  this  ser- 
pent should  be  engendered  in  one's  own  heart,  producing  its 
blindness,  and  finally  working  its  bane !  Yet,  so  it  is !  The 
story  is  a  painful  one  to  tell ;  the  task  is  one  of  self-humiliation. 
But  the  truth  may  inform  others — may  warn,  may  strengthen, 
may  save — before  their  hearts  shall  be  utterly  given  up  to  that 
blindness  which  must  end  in  utter  desperation  and  irretrievable 
overthrow. 

If  the  reader  has  not  been  utterly  unmindful  of  certain  moral 
suggestions  which  have  been  thrown  out  passingly  in  my  pre- 
vious narrative,  he  will  have  seen  that,  constitutionally,  I  am 
of  an  ardent,  impetuous  temper — an  active  mind,  ready,  ear- 
nest, impatient  of  control — seeking  the  difficult  for  its  own 
sake,  and  delighting  in  the  conquest  which  is  unexpected  by 
others. 

Such  a  nature  is  usually  frank  and  generous.     It  believes  in 


THE   EVIL  PRINCIPLE.  131 

the  affections  —  it  depends  upon  them.  It  freely  gives  its  own, 
but  challenges  the  equally  free  and  spontaneous  gift  of  yours 
in  return.  It  has  little  faith  in  the  things  which  fill  the  hearts 
of  the  mere  worldlings.  Worldly  honors  may  delight  it,  but 
not  worldly  toys.  It  has  no  veneration  for  gewgaws.  The 
shows  of  furniture  and  of  dress  it  despises.  The  gorgeous  equi- 
page is  an  encumbrance  to  it ;  the  imposing  jewel  it  would  not 
wear,  lest  it  might  subtract  something  from  that  homage  which 
it  prefers  should  be  paid  to  the  wearer.  It  is  all  selfish  — 
thoroughly  selfish — but  not  after  the  world's  fashion  of  selfish- 
ness. It  hoards  nothing,  and  gives  quite  as  much  as  it  asks. 
What  does  it  ask  ?  What  ?  It  asks  for  love — devoted  attach- 
ment ;  the  homage  of  the  loved  one  and  the  friends ;  the  im- 
plicit confidence  of  all  around  it !  Ah  !  can  anything  be  more 
exacting  1  Cruelly  exacting,  if  it  be  not  worthy  of  that  it  asks  ! 

Imagine  such  a  nature,  denied  from  the  beginning !  The 
parents  of  its  youth  are  gone!  —  the  brother  and  the  sister — 
the  father  and  the  friend !  It  is  destitute,  utterly,  of  these ! 
It  is  also  destitute  of  those  resources  of  fortune  which  are  sup- 
posed to  be  sufficient  to  command  them.  It  is  thrown  upon  the 
protection,  the  charge  of  strangers.  Not  strangers — no  !  From 
strangers,  perhaps,  but  little  could  be  expected.  It  is  thrown 
upon  the  care  of  relatives  —  a  father's  brother  !  Could  the  tie 
be  nearer  ?  Not  well !  But  it  had  been  better  if  strangers  had 
been  its  guardians.  Then  it  might  have  learned  to  endure  more 
patiently.  At  least,  it  would  have  felt  less  keenly  the  pangs 
inflicted  by  neglect,  contumely,  injustice.  In  this  situation  it 
grows  up,  like  some  sapling  torn  from  its  parent  forest,  its 
branches  hacked  off,  its  limbs  lacerated !  It  grows  up  in  a 
stranger-soil.  The  sharp  winds  assail  it  from  every  quarter. 
But  still  it  lives  —  it  grows.  It  grows  wildly,  rudely,  ungrace- 
fully ;  but  it  is  strong  and  tough,  in  consequence  of  its  exposure 
and  its  trials.  Its  vitality  increases  with  every  collision  which 
shakes  and  rends  it ;  until,  in  the  pathetic  language  of  relatives 
unhappily  burdened  with  such  encumbrances,  "  it  seems  impos- 
sible to  kill  it !" 

I  will  not  say  that  mine  tried  to  kill  me,  but  I  do  say  that 
they  took  precious  little  care  that  I  was  not  killed.  The  effect 
upon  my  body  was  good,  however — the  effect  of  their  indiffer- 


132  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

ence.  This  roughening  process  is  a  part  of  physical  training 
which  very  few  parents  understand.  It  is  essential  —  should 
he  insisted  on — hut  it  must  not  he  accompanied  with  a  moral 
roughening,  which  forces  upon  the  mind  of  the  pupil  the  con- 
viction that  the  ordeal  is  meant  for  his  destruction  rather  than 
for  his  good.  There  will  he  a  recoil  of  the  heart  —  a  cruel 
recoil  from  the  humanities — if  such  a  conviction  once  fills  the 
mind.  It  was  this  recoil  which  I  felt !  With  warm  affections 
seeking  for  objects  of  love — with  feelings  of  hope  and  venera- 
tion, imploring  for  altars  to  which  to  attach  themselves  —  I  was 
commanded  to  go  alone.  The  wilderness  alone  was  open  to 
me :  what  wonder  if  my  heart  grew  wild  and  capricious  even 
as  that  of  the  savage  who  dwells  only  amid  their  cheerless  re- 
cesses 1  With  a  smile  judiciously  bestowed  —  with  a  kind  word, 
a  gentle  tone,  an  occasional  voice  of  earnest  encouragement  — 
my  uncle  and  aunt  might  have  fashioned  my  heart  at  their 
pleasure.  I  should  have  been  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  pot- 
ter—  a  pliant  willow  in  the  grasp  of  the  careful  trainer.  A  na- 
ture constituted  like  mine  is,  of  all  others,  the  most  flexible ; 
but  it  is  also,  of  all  others,  the  most  resisting  and  incorrigible. 
Approach  it  with  a  judicious  regard  to  its  affections,  and  you 
do  with  it  what  you  please.  Let  it  but  fancy  that  it  is  the  vic- 
tim of  your  injustice,  however  slight,  and  the  war  is  an  intermi- 
nable one  between  you ! 

Thus  did  I  learn  the  first  lessons  of  suspiciousness.  They 
attended  me  to  the  schoolhouse ;  they  governed  and  made  me 
watchful  there.  The  schoolhouse,  the  play-places  —  the  very 
regions  of  earnest  faith  and  unlimited  confidence  —  produced 
no  such  effects  in  me.  They  might  have  done  so,  had  I  ceased, 
on  going  to  school,  to  see  my  relatives  any  longer.  But  the 
daily  presence  of  my  uncle  and  aunt,  with  their  system  of  con- 
tinued injustice,  at  length  rendered  my  suspicious  moods  habit- 
ual. I  became  shy.  I  approached  nobody,  or  approached  them 
with  doubt  and  watchfulness.  I  learned,  at  the  earliest  period, 
to  look  into  character,  to  analyze  conduct,  to  pry  into  the  mys- 
terious involutions  of  the  working  minds  around  me.  I  traced, 
or  fancied  that  I  traced,  the  performance  to  the  unexpressed  and 
secret  motive  in  which  it  had  its  origin.  I  discovered,  or  be- 
lieved that  I  discovered,  that  the  world  was  divided  into  ban- 


THE  EVIL  PRINCIPLE.  133 

ditti  and  hypocrites.  At  that  day  I  made  little  allowance  for 
the  existence  of  that  larger  class  than  all,  who  happen  to  be  the 
victims.  Unless  this  were  the  larger  class,  the  other  two  must 
very  much  and  very  rapidly  diminish.  My  infant  philosophy 
did  not  carry  me  very  deeply  into  the  recesses  of  my  own  heart. 
Jt  was  enough  that  I  felt  some  of  its  dearest  rights  to  be  out-- 
raged—  I  did  not  care  to  inquire  whether  it  was  altogether 
right  itself. 

At  length,  there  was  a  glimpse  of  dawn  amid  all  this  dark 
ness.  The  world  was  not  altogether  evil.  All  hearts  were  not 
shut  against  me ;  and  in  the  sweet  smiles  of  Julia  Clifford,  ii» 
her  kind  attentions,  soothing  assurances,  and  fond  entreaties, 
there  was  opportunity,  at  last,  for  my  feelings  to  overflow. 
Like  a  mountain-stream  long  pent  up,  which  at  length  breaks 
through  its  confinements,  my  affections  rushed  into  the  grateful 
channel  which  her  pliant  heart  afforded  me.  They  were  wild, 
and  strong,  and  devoted,  in  proportion  to  their  long  denial  and 
restraint.  Was  it  not  natural  enough  that  I  should  love  with 
no  ordinary  attachment — that  my  love  should  be  an  impetuous 
torrent — all-devoted — struggling,  striving — rushing  only  in 
the  one  direction  —  believing,  in  truth,  that  there  was  nont 
other  in  the  world  in  which  to  run  ? 

This  was  a  natural  consequence  of  the  long  sophistication  of 
my  feelings.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  world  —  of  society.  I  had 
shared  in  none  of  its  trusts ;  I  had  only  felt  its  exactions.  Like 
some  country-boy,  or  country -girl,  for  the  first  time  brought  into 
the  great  world,  I  surrendered  myself  wholly  to  the  first  grati 
fied  impulse.  I  made  no  conditions,  no  qualifications.  I  set 
all  my  hopes  of  heart  upon  a  single  cast  of  the  die,  and  did  noi 
ask  what  might  be  the  consequences  if  the  throw  was  unfoi 
tunate. 

One  of  tb.e  good  effects  of  a  free  communication  of  the  youn^ 
with  society  is,  to  lessen  the  exacting  nature  of  the  affections. 
People  who  live  too  much  to  themselves  —  in  their  own  centre, 
and  for  their  own  single  objects — become  fastidious  to  disease. 
They  ask  too  much  from  their  neighbors.  Willing  to  surrendei 
their  own  affections  at  a  glance,  they  fancy  the  world  wanting 
in  sensibility  when  they  find  that  their  readiness  in  this  ~especi 
fails  to  produce  a  corresponding  readiness  in  others.  This  is 


134  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

the  natural  history  of  that  enthusiasm  which  is  thrown  back 
upon  itself  and  is  chilled  by  denial.  The  complaint  of  coldness 
and  selfishness  against  the  world  is  very  common  among  very 
young  or  very  inexperienced  men.  The  world  gets  a  bad  char- 
acter,  simply  because  it  refuses  to  lavish  its  affections  along  tha 
highways  —  simply  because  it  is  cautious  in  giving  its  trusts,  and 
expects  proofs  of  service  and  actual  sympathy  rather  than  pro- 
fessions. Men  like  myself,  of  a  warm,  impetuous  nature,  com- 
plain of  the  heartlessness  of  mankind.  They  fancy  themselves 
peculiarly  the  victims  of  an  unkind  destiny  in  this  respect ;  and 
finally  cut  their  throats  in  a  moment  of  frenzy,  or  degenerate 
into  a  cynicism  that  delights  in  contradictions,  in  sarcasms,  in 
self-torture,  and  the  bitterest  hostility  to  their  neighbors. 

Society  itself  is  the  only  and  best  corrective  of  this  unhappy 
disposition.  The  first  gift  to  the  young,  therefore,  should  be 
the  gift  of  society.  By  this  word  society,  however,  I  do  not 
mean  a  set,  a  clique,  a  pitiable  little  circle.  Let  the  sphere  of 
movement  be  sufficiently  extended  — as  large  as  possible- — that 
the  means  of  observation  and  thought  may  be  sufficiently  com- 
prehensive, and  no  influences  from  one  man  or  one  family  shall 
be  suffered  to  give  the  bias  to  the  immature  mind  and  inexpe- 
rienced judgment.  In  society  like  this,  the  errors,  prejudices, 
weaknesses,  of  one  man,  are  corrected  by  a  totally  opposite 
form  of  character  in  another.  The  mind  of  the  youth  hesitates. 
Hesitation  brings  circumspection,  watchfulness ;  watchfulness, 
discrimination ;  discrimination,  choice ;  and  a  capacity  to  choose 
implies  the  attainment  of  a  certain  degree  of  deliberateness  and 
judgment  with  which  the  youth  may  be  permitted  to  go  upon 
his  way,  supposed  to  be  provided  for  in  the  difficult  respect  of 
being  able  henceforward  to  take  care  of  himself. 

I  had  no  society — knew  nothing  of  society  —  saw  it  at  a 
distance,  under  suspicious  circumstances,  and  was  myself  an 
object  of  itfl  suspicion.  Its  attractions  were  desirable  to  me, 
but  seemed  unattainable.  It  required  some  sacrifices  to  obtain 
its  entree,  and  these  sacrifices  were  the  very  ones  which  my 
independence  would  not  allow  me  to  make.  My  independence 
was  my  treasure,  duly  valued  in  proportion  to  the  constant 
strife  by  which  it  was  assailed.  I  had  that !  That  could  not 
be  taken  from  me.  That  kept  me  from  sinking  into  the  slave 


THE  EVIL  PRINCIPLE.  135 

tbe  tool,  the  sycophant,  perhaps  the  brute ;  tliat  prompted  me 
to  hard  study  in  secret  places ;  that  strengthened  my  heart, 
when,  desolate  and  striving  against  necessity,  I  saw  nothing  of 
the  smiles  of  society,  and  felt  nothing  of  the  bounties  of  life. 
Then  came  my  final  emancipation — my  success — my  triumph  ! 
My  independence  was  assailed  no  longer.  My  talents  were  no 
longer  doubted  or  denied.  My  reluctant  neighbors  sent  in  their 
adhesion.  My  uncle  forbore  his  sneers.  Lastly,  and  now — 
Julia  was  mine !  My  heart's  desires  were  all  gratified  as  com- 
pletely as  my  mind's  ambition ! 

Was  I  happy  ?  The  inconsiderate  mind  will  suppose  this 
very  probable  —  will  say,  I  should  be.  But  evil  seeds  that  are 
planted  in  the  young  heart  grow  up  with  years — not  so  rapidly 
or  openly  as  to  offend  —  and  grow  to  be  poisonous  weeds  with 
maturity.  My  feelings  were  too  devoted,  too  concentrative,  too 
all-absorbing,  to  leave  me  happy,  even  when  they  seemed  grati- 
fied. The  man  who  has  but  a  single  jewel  in  the  world,  is  very 
apt  to  labor  under  a  constant  apprehension  of  its  loss.  He  who 
knows  but  one  object  of  attachment — whose  heart's  devotion 
turns  evermore  but  to  one  star  of  all  the  countless  thousands  in 
the  heavens — wo  is  he,  if  that  star  be  shrouded  from  his  gaze 
in  the  sudden  overflow  of  storms  !  —  still  more  wo  is  he,  when 
that  star  withdraws,  or  seems  to  withdraw,  its  corresponding 
gaze,  or  turns  it  elsewhere  upon  another  worshipper  !  See  you 
not  the  danger  which  threatened  me  ?  See  you  not  that,  never 
having  been  beloved  before — never  having  loved  but  the  one 
—  I  loved  that  one  with  all  my  heart,  with  all  my  soul,  with  all 
my  strength ;  and  required  from  that  one  the  equal  love  of  heart, 
soul,  strength1?  See  you  not  that  my  love — linked  with  impa- 
tient mind,  imperious  blood,  impetuous  enthusiasm,  and  suspi- 
cious fear — -was  a  devotion  exacting  as  the  grave — searching 
as  fever — as  jealous  of  the  thing  whose  worship  it  demands  as 
God  is  said  to  be  of  ours  ? 

Mine  was  eminently  a  jealous  heart !  On  this  subject  of 
jealousy,  men  rarely  judge  correctly.  They  speak  of  Othello 
as  jealous  —  Othello,  one  of  the  least  jealous  of  all  human  na- 
tures !  Jealousy  is  a  quality  that  needs  no  cause.  It  makes 
its  own  cause.  It  will  find  or  make  occasion  for  its  exercise, 
in  the  most  innocent  circumstances.  The  proofs  that  made 


136  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

Othello  wretched  and  revengeful,  were  sufficient  to  have  de- 
ceived any  jury  under  the  sun.  He  had  proofs.  He  had  a 
strong  case  to  go  upon.  It  would  have  influenced  any  judg- 
ment. He  did  not  seek  or  find  these  proofs  for  himself.  He 
did  not  wish  to  find  them.  He  was  slow  to  see  them.  His  was 
not  jealousy.  His  error  was  that  of  pride  and  self-esteem.  He 
was  outraged  in  both.  His  mistake  was  in  being  too  prompt  of 
action  in  a  case  which  admitted  of  deliberation.  This  was  the 
error  of  a  proud  man,  a  soldier,  prompt  to  decide,  prompt  to  act, 
and  to  punish  if  necessary.  But  never  was  human  character 
less  marked  by  a  jealous  mood  than  that  of  Othello.  His  great 
self-esteem  was,  of  itself,  a  sufficient  security  against  jealousy 
Mine  might  have  been,  had  it  not  been  so  terribly  diseased  by 
ill-training. 


PRESENTIMENTS.  137 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

PRESENTIMENTS. 

WITHOUT  apprehending  the  extent  of  my  own  weakness,  the 
forms  that  it  would  take,  or  the  tyrannies  that  it  would  inflict, 
I  was  still  not  totally  uninformed  on  the  subject  of  my  peculiar 
character ;  and,  fearing  then  rather  that  I  might,  pain  my  wife 
by  some  of  its  wanton  demonstrations,  than  that  she  would  ever 
furnish  me  with  an  occasion  for  them,  I  took  an  opportunity,  a 
few  evenings  after  our  marriage,  to  suggest  to  her  the  necessity 
of  regarding  my  outbreaks  with  an  indulgent  eye. 

My  heart  had  been  singularly  softened  by  the  most  touching 
associations.  We  sat  together  in  our  piazza,  beneath  a  flood 
of  the  richest  and  balmiest  moonlight,  screened  only  from  its 
silvery  blaze  by  interposing  masses  of  the  woodbine,  mingled 
with  shoots  of  oleander,  arbor-vitse,  and  other  shrub-trees.  The 
mild  breath  of  evening  sufficed  only  to  lift  quiveringly  their 
green  leaves  and  glowing  blossoms,  to  stir  the  hair  upon  our 
cheeks,  and  give  to  the  atmosphere  that  wooing  freshness  which 
seems  so  necessary  a  concomitant  of  the  moonlight.  The  hand 
of  Julia  was  in  mine.  There  were  few  words  spoken  between 
us ;  love  has  its  own  sufficing  language,  and  is  content  with  that 
consciousness  that  all  is  right  which  implores  no  other  assu- 
rances. Julia  had  just  risen  from  the  piano  :  we  had  both  been 
touched  with  a  deeper  sense  of  the  thousand  harmonies  in  na- 
ture, by  listening  to  those  of  Rossini ;  and  now,  gazing  upon 
some  transparent,  fleecy,  white  clouds  that  were  slowly  pressing 
forward  in  the  path  of  the  moonlight,  as  if  in  duteous  attendance 
upon  some  maiden  queen,  our  mutual  minds  were  busied  in 
framing  pictures  from  the  fine  yet  fantastic  forms  that  glowed, 
gathering  on  our  gaze.  I  felt  the  hand  of  Julia  trembling  in 


138  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

my  own.  Her  head  sank  upon  my  shoulder ;  I  felt  a  warm 
drop  fall  from  her  eyes  upon  my  hand,  and  exclaimed  — 

"  Julia,  you  weep  !  wherefore  do  you  weep,  dear  wife  ?" 

"  With  joy,  my  husband  !  My  heart  is  full  of  joy.  I  am  sc 
happy,  I  can  only  weep.  Ah  !  tears  alone  speak  for  the  true 
happiness." 

"  Ah  !  would  it  last,  Julia — would  it  last !" 

"  Oh,  doubt  not  that  it  will  last.  Why  should  it  not  ?  What 
have  we  to  fear  V 

Mine  was  a  serious  nature.     I  answered  sadly,  if  not  gloom- 

ay!- 

"Because  it  is  a  joy  of  life  that  we  feel,  and  it  must  share 
the  vicissitudes  of  life." 

"  True,  true,  but  love  is  a  joy  of  eternal  life  as  well  as  of 
this." 

There  was  a  beautiful  and  consoling  truth  in  this  one  little 
sentence,  which  my  self-absorption  was  too  great,  at  the  time, 
to  suffer  me  to  see.  Perhaps  even  she  herself  was  not  fully 
conscious  of  the  glorious  and  pregnant  truth  which  lay  at  the 
,ottom  of  what  she  said.  Love  is,  indeed,  not  merely  a  joy  of 
eternal  life :  it  is  the  joy  of  eternal  life  !  —  its  particular  joy  — 
a  dim  shadow  of  which  we  Gometimes  feel  in  this — pure,  last- 
ing, comparatively  perfect,  the  more  it  approaches,  in  its  per- 
formances and  its  desires,  the  divine  essence,  of  which  it  is  so 
poor  a  likeness.  We  should  so  live,  so  love,  as  to  make  the  one 
run  into  the  other,  even  as  a  small  river  runs  down,  through  a 
customary  channel,  into  the  great  deeps  of  the  sea.  Death 
should  be  to  the  affections  a  mere  channel  through  which  they 
pass  into  a  natural,  a  necessary  condition,  where  their  streams 
flow  with  more  freedom,  and  over  which,  harmoniously  control" 
ling,  as  powerful,  the  spirit  of  love  broods  ever  with  "  dovelike 
wings  outspread."  I  answered,  still  gloomily,  in  the  customary 
world  commonplaces : — 

"  We  must  expect  the  storm.  It  will  not  be  moonlight  al- 
ways. We  must  look  for  the  cloud.  Age,  sickness,  death  !  — 
ah !  do  these  not  follow  on  our  footsteps,  ever  unerring,  certain 
always,  but  so  often  rapid  ?  Soon,  how  soon,  they  haunt  us  in 
the  happiest  moments — they  meet  us  at  every  corner!  They 
never  altogether  leave  us." 


PRESENTIMENTS.  139 

"Enough,  dear  husband.  Dwell  not  upon  these  gloomy 
thoughts.  Ah!  why  should  you — now?1 

"  I  will  not ;  but  there  are  others,  Julia." 

"  What  others  1     Evils  V9 

"  Sadder  evils  yet  than  these." 

"Oh,  no! — I  hope  not." 

"  Coldness  of  the  once  warm  heart.  The  chill  of  affection  ic 
the  loved  one.  Estrangement — indifference ! — ah,  Julia !" 

"  Impossible,  Edward  !  This  can  not,  must  not  be,  with  us, 
You  do  not  think  that  I  could  be  cold  to  you;  and  you — ah! 
surely  you  will  never  cease  to  love  me  V9 

"  Never,  I  trust,  never  !" 

"No!  you  must  not — shall  not.  Oh,  Edward,  let  me  die 
first  before  such  a  fear  should  fill  my  breast.  You  I  love,  as 
none  was  loved  before.  Without  your  love,  I  am  nothing.  If 
I  can  not  hang  upon  you,  where  can  I  hang  ?" 

And  she  clung  to  me  with  a  grasp  as  if  life  and  death  de- 
pended on  it,  while  her  sobs,  as  from  a  full  heart,  were  insup- 
pressible  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts. 

"  Fear  nothing,  dearest  Julia :  do  you  not  believe  that  I  love 
you  1" 

"  Ah  !  if  I  did  not,  Edward — " 

"  It  is  with  you  always  to  make  me  love  you.  You  are  as 
completely  the  mistress  of  my  whole  heart  as  if  it  had  acknowl- 
edged no  laws  but  yours  from  the  beginning." 

"  What  am  I  to  do,  dear  Edward  ?" 

"  Forbear — be  indulgent — pity  me  and  spare  me  !" 

"  What  mean  you,  Edward  ?" 

"  That  heart  which  is  all  and  only  yours,  Julia,  is  yet,  I  am 
assured,  a  wilful  and  an  erring  heart !  I  feel  that  it  is  strange, 
wayward,  sometimes  unjust  to  others,  frequently  to  itself.  It 
is  a  cross-grained,  capricious  heart ;  you  will  find  its  exactions 
irksome." 

"  Oh,  I  know  it  better.    You  wrong  yourself." 

"No!  In  the  solemn  sweetness  of  this  hour,  dear  Julia — 
now,  while  all  things  are  sweet  to  our  eyes,  all  things  dear  to 
our  affections — I  feel  a  chill  of  doubt  and  apprehension  come 
over  me.  I  am  so  happy — so  unusually  happy — that  I  can 
not  feel  sure  that  I  am  so  —  that  my  happiness  will  continue 


140  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

long.  I  will  try,  on  my  own  part,  to  do  nothing  by  which  to 
risk  its  loss.  But  I  feel  that  I  am  too  wilful,  at  times,  to  he 
strong  in  keeping  a  resolution  which  is  so  very  necessary  to  our 
mutual  happiness.  You  must  help — you  must  strengthen  me, 
Julia." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  but  how  ?     I  will  do  anything — be  anything." 

"  I  am  capricious,  wayward ;  at  times,  full  of  injustice.  Love 
me  not  less  that  I  am  so — that  I  sometimes  show  this  wayward- 
ness to  you — that  I  sometimes  do  injustice  to  your  love.  Bear 
with  me  till  the  dark  mood  passes  from  my  heart.  I  have  these 
moods,  or  have  had  them,  frequently.  It  may  be — I  trust  it 
will  be  —  that,  blessed  with  your  love,  and  secure  in  its  posses- 
sion, there  will  be  no  room  in  my  heart  for  such  ugly  feelings. 
But  I  know  not.  They  sometimes  take  supreme  possession  of 
me.  They  seize  upon  me  in  all  places.  They  wrap  my  spirit 
as  in  a  cloud.  I  sit  apart.  I  scowl  upon  those  around  me.  I 
feel  moved  to  say  bitter  things — to  shoot  darts  in  defiance  at 
every  glance — to  envenom  every  sentence  which  I  speak. 
These  are  cruel  moods.  I  have  striven  vainly  to  shake  them 
off.  They  have  grown  up  with  my  growth  —  have  shared  in 
whatever  strength  I  have ;  and,  while  they  embitter  my  own 
thoughts  and  happiness,  I  dread  that  they  will  fling  their  shadow 
upon  yours !" 

She  replied  with  gayety,  with  playfulness,  but  there  was  an 
effort  in  it. 

"  Oh,  you  make  the  matter  worse  than  it  is.  I  suppose  all 
that  troubles  you  is  the  blues.  But  you  will  never  have  them 
again.  When  I  see  them  coming  on  I  will  sit  by  you  and  sing 
to  you.  We  will  come  out  here  and  watch  the  evening ;  or  you 
shall  read  to  me,  or  we  will  ramble  in  the  garden — or — a  thou- 
sand things  which  shall  make  you  forget  that  there  was  ever 
such  a  thing  in  the  world  as  sorrow." 

"  Dear  Julia  —  will  you  do  this  ?" 

"More — everything  to  make  you  happy."  And  she  drew 
me  closer  in  her  embrace,  and  her  lips  with  a  tremulous,  almost 
convulsive  sweetness,  were  pressed  upon  my  forehead  ;  and  cling- 
ing there,  oh  !  how  sweetly  did  she  weep  ! 

"  You  will  tire  of  my  waywardness  —  of  my  exactions.  Ah  1 
I  shall  force  you  from  my  side  by  my  caprice." 


PRESENTIMENTS.  141 

"  You  can  not,  Edward,  if  you  would,"  she  replied,  in  mournful 
accents  like  my  own, "  I  have  no  remedy  against  you !  I  have 
nobody  now  to  whom  to  turn.  Have  I  not  driven  all  from  my 
side— all  but  you?" 

It  was  my  task  to  soothe  her  now. 

"  Nay,  Julia,  be  not  you  sorrowful.  You  must  continue  glad 
and  blest,  that  you  may  conquer  my  sullen  moods,  my  dark  pre- 
sentiments. When  I  tell  you  of  the  evils  of  my  temper,  I  tell 
you  of  occasional  clouds  only.  Heaven  forbid  that  they  should 
give  an  enduring  aspect  to  our  heavens ! 

She  responded  fervently  to  my  ejaculation.     I  continued: — 

"  I  have  only  sought  to  prepare  you  for  the  management  of 
my  arbitrary  nature,  to  keep  you  from  suffering  too  much,  and 
sinking  beneath  its  exactions.  You  will  bear  with  me  patiently. 
Forgive  me  for  my  evil  hours.  Wait  till  the  storm  has  over- 
blown ;  and  find  me  your  own,  then,  as  much  as  before  ;  and  let 
me  feel  that  you  are  still  mine — that  the  tempest  has  not  sep- 
arated our  little  vessels." 

"  Will  I  not  ?  Ah !  do  not  fear  for  me,  Edward.  It  is  a  hap- 
piness for  me  to  weep  here — here,  in  your  arms.  When  you 
are  sad  and  moody,  I  will  come  as  now/' 

"  What  if  I  repulse  you  ?" 

"  You  will  not — no,  no  ! — you  will  not." 

"  But  if  I  do  ?     Suppose " 

"  Ah  !  it  is  hard  to  suppose  that.  But  I  will  not  heed  it.  I 
will  come  again." 

"  And  again  ?" 

"And  again!" 

"  Then  you  will  conquer,  Julia.  I  feel  that  you  will  conquer ! 
You  will  drive  out  the  devils.  Surely,  then,  I  shall  be  incor- 
rigible no  longer." 

Such  was  my  conviction  then.     I  little  knew  myself. 


142  CONFESSION,   OR   THE   BLIttD   HEART. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

DISTRUST. 

I  LITTLE  knew  myself !  This  knowledge  of  one's  self  is  the 
most  important  knowledge,  which  very  few  of  us  acquire.  We 
seldom  look  into  our  own  hearts  for  other  objects  than  those 
which  will  administer  to  their  petty  vanities  and  passing  tri- 
umphs. Could  we  only  look  there  sometimes  for  the  truth  ! 
But  we  are  blind — blind  all !  In  some  respects  I  was  one  of 
the  blindest ! 

I  have  given  a  brief  glimpse  of  our  honeymoon.  Perhaps,  as 
the  world  goes,  the  picture  is  by  no  means  an  attractive  one. 
Quiet  felicity  forms  but  a  small  item  in  the  sources  of  happiness, 
now-a-days,  among  young  couples.  Mine  was  sufficiently  quiet 
and  sufficiently  humble.  One  would  suppose  that  he  who  builds 
so  lowly  should  have  no  reason  to  apprehend  the  hurricane. 
Social  ambition  was  clearly  no  object  with  either  of  us.  We 
sighed  neither  for  the  glitter  nor  the  regards  of  fashionable  life. 
Neither  upon  fine  houses,  jewels,  or  equipages,  did  we  set  our 
hearts.  For  the  pleasures  of  the  table  I  had  no  passion,  and 
never  was  young  woman  so  thoroughly  regardless  of  display  as 
Julia  Clifford.  To  be  let  alone — to  be  suffered  to  escape  in  our 
own  way,  unharming,  unharmed,  through  the  dim  avenues  of  life 
—  was  assuredly  all  that  we  asked  from  man.  Perhaps — I  say 
it  without  cant — this,  perhaps,  was  all  that  we  possibly  asked 
from  heaven.  This  was  all  that  I  asked,  at  least,  and  this  was 
much.  It  was  asking  what  had  never  yet  been  accorded  to  hu- 
manity. In  the  vain  assumption  of  my  heart  I  thought  that  my 
demands  were  moderate. 

Let  no  man  console  himself  with  the  idea  that  his  chances  of 
success  are  multiplied  in  degree  with  the  insignificance,  or  seem- 
ing insignificance,  of  his  aims.  Perhaps  the  very  reverse  of  thi» 


DISTRUST.  143 

is  the  truth.  He  who  seeks  for  many  objects  of  enjoyment — 
whose  tastes  are  diversified — has  probably  the  very  best  prospect 
that  some  of  them  may  be  gratified.  He  is  like  the  merchant 
whose  ventures  on  the  sea  are  divided  among  many  vessels.  He 
may  lose  one  or  more,  yet  preserve  the  main  bulk  of  his  fortune 
from  the  wreck.  But  he  who  has  onljua  single  bark — one  freight- 
age, however  costly — whose  whole  estate  is  invested  in  the  one 
venture — let  him  lose  that,  and  all  is  lost.  It  does  not  matter 
that  his  loss,  speaking  relatively,  is  but  little.  Suppose  his 
shipment,  in  general  estimation,  to  be  of  small  value.  The  loss 
to  him  is  so  much  the  greater.  It  was  the  dearer  to  him  because 
of  its  insignificance,  and  being  all  that  he  had  ;  is  quite  as  con- 
clusive of  his  ruin,  ai  would  be  the  foundering  of  every  vessel 
which  the  rich  merchant  sent  to  sea. 

I  was  one  of  these  petty  traders.  I  invested  my  whole  capital 
of  the  affections  in  one  precious  jewel.  Did  I  lose  it,  or  simply 
fear  its  loss  ?  Time  must  show.  But,  of  a  truth,  I  felt  as  the 
miser  feels  with  his  hoarded  treasure.  While  I  watched  its 
richness  and  beauty,  doubts  and  dread  beset  me.  Was  it  safe  ? 
Everything  depended  upon  its  security.  Thieves  might  break 
in  and  steal.  Enough,  for  the  present,  to  say,  that  much  of  my 
security,  and  of  the  security  of  all  who,  like  me,  possess  a  dear 
treasure,  depends  upon  our  convictions  of  security.  He  who 
apprehends  loss,  is  already  robbed.  The  reality  is  scarcely 
worse  than  the  hourly  anticipation  of  it. 

My  friends  naturally  became  the  visiters  of  my  family.  Cer- 
tain of  the  late  Mrs.  Clifford's  friends  were  also  ours.  Our  cir- 
cle was  sufficiently  large  for  those  who  already  knew  how  to 
distinguish  between  the  safe  pleasures  of  a  small  set,  and  the 
horse-play  and  heartless  enjoyments  of  fashionable  jams.  Were 
we  permitted  in  this  world  to  live  only  for  ourselves,  we  should 
have  been  perfectly  gratified  had  this  been  even  less.  We  should 
have  been  very  well  content  to  have  gone  on  from  day  to  day 
without  ever  beholding  the  shadow  of  a  stranger  upon  our 
threshold. 

This  was  not  permitted,  however.  We  had  a  round  of  con- 
gratulatory visits.  Among  those  who  came,  the  first  were  the 
old,  long-tried  friends  to  whom  I  cwed  so  much — the  Edgertons. 
No  family  could  have  been  more  truly  amiable  than  this  ;  and 


144  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

William  Edgerton  was  the  most  amiable  of  the  family.  I  have 
already  said  enough  to  persuade  the  reader  that  he  was  a  very 
worthy  man.  He  was  more.  He  was  a  principled  one.  Not 
very  highly  endowed,  perhaps,  he  was  yet  an  intelligent  gentle- 
man. None  could  be  more  modest  in  expression — none  less  ob- 
trusive in  deportment — none  more  generous  in  service.  The 
defects  in  his  character  were  organic — not  moral.  He  had  no 
vices  —  no  vulgarities.  But  his  temperament  was  an  inactive 
one.  He  was  apt  to  be  sluggish,  and  when  excited  was  nervous. 
He  was  not  irritable,  but  easily  discomposed.  His  tastes  were 
active  at  the  expense  of  his  genius.  With  ability,  he  was  yet 
unperforming.  His  standards  were  morbidly  fastidious.  Fearing 
to  fall  below  them,  he  desisted  until  the  moment  of  action  was 
passed  for  ever ;  and  the  feeling  of  his  own  weakness,  in  this 
respect,  made  him  often  sad,  but  to  do  him  justice,  never 
querulous. 

With  a  person  so  constituted,  the  delicate  tastes  and  sensibil- 
ities are  like  to  be  indulged  in  a  very  high  degree.  William 
Edgerton  loved  music  and  all  the  quiet  arts.  Painting  was  his 
particular  delight.  He  himself  sketched  with  great  spirit.  He 
had  the  happy  eye  for  the  tout  ensemble  in  a  fine  landscape.  He 
knew  exactly  how  much  to  take  in  and  what  to  leave  out,  in  the 
delineation  of  a  lovely  scene.  This  is  a  happy  talent  for  dis- 
crimination which  the  ordinary  artist  does  not  possess.  It  is  the 
capacity  which,  in  the  case  of  orators  and  poets,  informs  them  of 
the  precise  moment  when  they  should  stop.  It  is  the  happiest 
sort  of  judgment,  since,  though  the  artist  may  be  neither  very 
excellent  in  drawing,  nor  very  felicitous  in  color,  it  enables 
him  always  to  bestow  a  certain  propriety  on  his  picture  which 
compensates,  to  a  certain  degree,  for  inferiority  in  other  respects. 
To  know  how  to  grasp  objects  with  spirit,  and  bestow  them 
with  a  due  regard  to  mutual  dependence,  is  one  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite faculties  of  the  landscape-painter. 

William  Edgerton,  had  he  been  forced  by  necessity  to  have 
made  the  art  of  painting  his  profession  would  have  made  for  him- 
self a  reputation  of  no  inferior  kind.  But  amateur  art,  like  ama- 
teur literature,  rarely  produces  any  admirable  fruits.  Complete 
success  only  attends  the  devotee  to  the  muse.  The  worship  must 
b«  exclusive  at  her  altar ;  the  attendance  constant  and  unremifc 


DISTRUST.  145 

ting.  There  must  be  no  partial,  no  divided  homage.  She  is  a 
jealous  mistress,  like  all  the  rest.  The  lover  of  her  charms, 
if  he  would  secure  her  smiles,  must  be  a  professor  at  he* 
shrine.  He  can  not  come  and  go  at  pleasure.  She  resents 
such  impertinence  by  neglect.  In  plain  terms,  the  fine  arts 
must  be  made  a  business  by  those  who  desire  their  favor.  Like 
law,  divinity,  physic,  they  constitute  a  profession  of  their  own ; 
require  the  same  diligent  endeavor,  close  study,  fond  pursuit ! 
William  Edgerton  loved  painting,  but  his  business  was  the  law. 
He  loved  painting  too  much  to  love  his  profession.  He  gave 
too  much  of  his  time  to  the  law  to  be  a  successful  painter — too 
much  time  to  painting  to  be  a  lawyer.  He  was  nothing !  At 
the  bar  he  never  rose  a  step  after  the  first  day,  when,  together, 
we  appeared  in  our  mutual  maiden  case  ;  and  contenting  himself 
with  the  occasional  execution  of  a  landscape,  sketchy  and  bold, 
but  without  finish,  he  remained  in  that  nether-land  of  public  con- 
sideration, unable  to  grasp  the  certainties  of  either  pursuit  at 
which  he  nevertheless  was  constantly  striving ;  striving,  how- 
ever, with  that  qualified  degree  of  effort,  which,  if  it  never  could 
secure  the  prize,  never  could  fatigue  him  much  with  the  endeavor 
to  do  so. 

He  was  perfectly  delighted  when  he  first  saw  some  of  the 
sketches  of  my  wife.  He  had  none  of  that  little  jealousy 
which  so  frequently  impairs  the  temper  and  the  worth  of  am- 
ateurs. He  could  admire  without  prejudice,  and  praise  without 
reserve.  He  praised  them.  He  evidently  admired  them.  He 
sought  every  occasion  to  see  them,  and  omitted  none  in  which 
to  declare  his  opinion  of  their  merits.  This,  in  the  first  pleasant 
season  of  my  marriage — when  the  leaves  were  yet  green  and 
fresh  upon  the  tree  of  love — was  grateful  to  my  feelings.  I 
felt  happy  to  discover  that  my  judgment  had  not  erred  in  the 
selection  of  my  wife.  I  stimulated  her  industry  that  I  might 
listen  to  my  friend's  eulogy.  I  suggested  subjects  for  her  pen- 
cil. I  fitted  up  an  apartment  especially  as  a  studio  for  her  use. 
I  bought  her  some  fine  studies,  lay  figures,  heads  in  marble  and 
plaster ;  and  lavished,  in  this  way,  the  small  surplus  fur.d  which 
had  heretofore  accrued  from  my  professional  industry,  and  that 
personal  frugality  with  which  it  was  accompanied. 

William  Edgerton  was  now  for  ever  at  our  house.  Hd 

7 


146  CONFESSION,    OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

brought  his  own  pictures  for  the  inspection  of  my  wife.  He 
sometimes  painted  in  her  studio.  He  devised  rural  and 
aquatic  parties  with  sole  reference  to  landscape  scenery  and 
delineation ;  and  indifferent  to  the  law  always,  he  now  aban- 
doned himself  almost  entirely  to  those  tastes  which  seemed  to 
have  acquired  of  a  sudden,  the  strangest  and  the  strongest 
impulse. 

In  this  —  at  least  for  a  considerable  space  of  time — I  saw 
nothing  very  remarkable.  I  knew  his  tastes  previously.  I  had 
seen  how  little  disposed  he  was  to  grapple  earnestly  with  the 
duties  of  his  profession ;  and  did  not  conceive  it  surprising,  that, 
with  family  resources  sufficient  to  yield  him  pecuniary  indepen- 
dence, he  should  surrender  himself  up  to  the  luxurious  influence 
of  tastes  which  were  equally  lovely  in  themselves,  and  natural 
to  the  first  desires  of  his  mind.  But  when  for  days  he  was 
missed  from  his  office  —  when  the  very  hours  of  morning  which 
are  most  religiously  devoted  by  the  profession  to  its  ostensible 
if  not  earnest  pursuit,  were  yielded  up  to  the  easel — and  when, 
overlooking  the  boundaries  which,  according  to  the  conventional 
usage,  made  such  a  course  improper,  he  passed  many  of  these 
mornings  at  my  house,  during  my  absence,  I  began  to  entertain 
feelings  of  disquietude. 

For  these  I  had  then  no  name.  The  feelings  were  vague 
and  indefinable,  but  not  the  less  unpleasant.  I  did  not  fancy 
for  a  moment  that  I  was  wronged,  or  likely  to  be  wronged,  but 
I  felt  that  he  was  doing  wrong.  Then,  too,  I  had  my  mis- 
givings of  what  the  world  would  think  !  I  did  not  fancy  that 
he  had  any  design  to  wrong  me ;  but  there  seemed  to  me  a 
cruel  want  of  consideration  in  his  conduct.  But  what  annoyed 
me  most  was,  that  Julia  should  receive  him  at  such  periods 
He  was  thoughtless,  enthusiastic  in  art,  and  thoughtless,  per- 
haps, in  consequence  of  his  enthusiasm.  But  I  expected  that 
she  should  think  for  both  of  us  in  such  a  case.  Women,  alone, 
can  be  the  true  guardians  of  appearances  where  they  themselves 
are  concerned ;  and  it  was  matter  of  painful  surprise  to  me  that 
she  should  not  have  asked  herself  the  question :  "  What  will 
the  neighbors  think,  during  my  husband's  absence,  to  see  a 
stranger,  a  young  man,  coming  to  visit  me  with  periodical  regu- 
larity, morning  after  morning  ?" 


DISTRUST.  147 

That  she  did  not  ask  herself  this  question  should  have  been 
a  very  strong  argument  to  show  me  that  her  thoughts  were  all 
innocent.  But  there  is  a  terrible  truth  in  what  Caesar  said  of 
his  wife's  reputation  :  "  She  must  be  free  from  suspicion."  She 
ir.ust  not  only  do  nothing  wrong,  but  she  must  not  suffer  or  do 
anything  which  might  incur  the  suspicion  of  wrong-doing. 
There  is  nothing  half  so  sensible  to  the  breath  of  calumny,  as 
female  reputation,  particularly  in  regions  of  high  civilization, 
where  women  are  raised  to  an  artificial  rank  of  respect,  which 
obviates,  in  most  part,  the  obligations  of  their  dependence  upon 
man,  but  increases,  in  due  proportion,  some  of  their  responsibili- 
ties to  him.  Poor  Julia  had  no  circumspection,  because  she 
had  no  feeling  of  evil.  I  believe  she  was  purity  itself;  I 
equally  believe  that  William  Edgerton  was  quite  incapable  of 
evil  design.  But  when  I  came  from  my  office,  the  first  morning 
that  he  had  thus  passed  at  my  house  in  my  absence,  and  she  told 
me  that  he  had  been  there,  and  how  the  time  had  been  spent,  I 
felt  a  pang,  like  a  sharp  arrow,  suddenly  rush  into  my  brain. 
Julia  had  no  reserve  in  telling  me  this  fact.  It  was  a  subject  she 
seemed  pleased  to  dwell  upon.  She  narrated  with  the  earnest, 
unseeing  spirit  of  a  self-satisfied  child,  the  sort  of  conversation 
which  had  taken  place  between  them  —  praised  Edgerton's 
taste,  his  delicacy,  his  subdued,  persuasive  manners,  and  show* 
ed  herself  as  utterly  unsophisticated  as  any  Swiss  mountain-girl 
who  voluntarily  yields  the  traveller  a  kiss,  and  tells  her  mother  of 
it  afterward.  I  listened  with  chilled  manners  and  a  troubled  mind. 
"You  are  unwell,  Edward,"  she  remarked  tenderly,  ap- 
proaching and  throwing  her  arms  around  my  neck,  as  she  per- 
ceived the  gradual  gathering  of  that  cloud  upon  my  brows. 
"  Why  do  you  think  so,  Julia  ?" 

"Oh,  you  look  so  sad — almost  severe,  Edward,  and  your 
words  are  so  few  and  cold.  Have  I  offended  you,  dear  Edward  V* 
I  was  confused  at  this  direct  question.  I  felt  annoyed, 
ashamed.  I  pleaded  headache  in  justification  of  my  manner — 
it  did  ache,  and  my  heart,  too,  but  not  with  the  ordinary  pang ; 
and  I  felt  a  warm  blush  suffuse  my  cheek,  as  I  yielded  to  the 
first  suggestion  which  prompted  me  to  deceive  my  wife. 

A  large  leading  step  was  thus  taken,  and  progress  was  easy 
afterward. 


148  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

Oil !  sweet  spirit  of  confidence,  tliou  only  true  saint,  more 
needful  than  all,  to  bind  the  ties  of  kindred  and  affection  !  why 
art  thou  so  prompt  to  fly  at  the  approach  of  thy  cold,  dark  en- 
emy, distrust  ?  Why  dost  thou  yield  the  field  with  so  little 
struggle?  Why,  when  the  things,  dearest  to  thee  of  all  in  the 
world's  gift  —  its  most  valued  treasure,  its  purest,  sweetest,  and 
proudest  trophies  —  why,  when  these  are  the  stake  which  is  to 
reward  thy  courage,  thy  adherence,  to  compensate  thee  for  trial, 
to  console  thee  for  loss  and  outrage — why  is  it  that  thou  art  so 
ready  to  despond  of  the  cause  so  dear  to  thee,  and  forfeit  the 
conquest  by  which  alone  thy  whole  existence  is  made  sweet. 
This  is  the  very  suicide  of  self.  Fearful  of  loss,  we  forsake 
the  prize,  which  we  have  won ;  and  hearkening  to  the  counsel 
of  a  natural  enemy,  eat  of  that  bitter  fruit  which  banishes  for 
ever  from  our  Kps  the  sweet  savor  which  we  knew  before,  and 
without  which,  no  savor  that  is  left  is  sweet. 


PBOGBESS  OF  THE  EVIL   SPIRIT.  149 


CHAPTER  XX 

PROGRESS    OF    THE    EVIL   SPIRIT. 

IF  1  felt  so  deeply  annoyed  at  the  first  morning  visit  which 
William  Edgerton  paid  to  my  wife,  what  was  my  annoyance 
when  these  visits  became  habitual.  I  was  miserable  but  could 
not  complain.  I  was  ashamed  of  the  language  of  complaint  on 
such  a  subject.  There  is  something  very  ridiculous  in  the  idea 
of  a  jealous  husband  —  it  has  always  provoked  the  laughter  of 
the  world ;  and  I  was  one  of  those  men  who  shrunk  from 
ridicule  with  a  more  than  mortal  dread.  Besides,  I  really  felt 
no  alarm.  I  had  the  utmost  confidence  in  my  wife's  virtue.  I  had 
not  the  less  confidence  in  that  of  Edgerton.  But  I  was  jealous 
of  her  deference — of  her  regard — for  another.  She  was,  in 
my  eyes,  as  something  sacred,  set  apart — a  treasure  exclusively 
my  own !  Should  it  be  that  another  should  come  to  divide  her 
veneration  with  me  1  I  was  vexed  that  she  should  derive  satis- 
faction from  another  source  than  myself.  This  satisfaction  she 
derived  from  the  visits  of  Edgerton.  She  freely  avowed  it. 

"  How  amiable — how  pleasant  he  is,"  she  would  say,  in  the 
perfect  innocence  of  her  heart ;  "  and  really,  Edward,  he  has  so 
much  talent !" 

These  praises  annoyed  me.  They  were  as  so  much  worm- 
wood to  my  spirit.  It  must  be  remembered  that  I  was  not  my- 
self what  the  world  calls  an  amiable  man.  I  doubt  if  any, 
even  of  my  best  friends,  would  describe  me  as  a  pleasant  one. 
I  was  a  man  of  too  direct  and  earnest  a  temperament  to  estab- 
lish a  claim,  in  reasonable  degree,  to  either  of  these  character- 
istics. I  was,  accordingly,  something  blunt  in  my  address — 
the  tones  of  my  voice  were  loud — my  manner  was  all  empresse- 
xient,  except  when  I  was  actually  angry,  and  then  it  was  cold. 


150  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEAET. 

hard,  dry,  inflexible.  I  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
pass  for  an  amiable.  Now,  Julia,  on  the  other  hand,  was  quiet, 
subdued,  timorous — the  tones  of  a  strong,  decided  voice  startled 
her — she  shrunk  from  controversy — yielded  always  with  a 
happy  grace  in  anticipation  of  the  conflict,  and  showed,  in  all 
respects,  that  nice,  almost  nervous  organization  which  attaches 
the  value  of  principles  and  morals  to  mere  manners,  and  would 
be  as  much  shocked,  perhaps,  at  the  expression  of  a  rudeness, 
as  at  the  commission  of  a  sin.  Not  that  such  persons  would 
hold  a  sin  to  be  less  criminal  or  innocuous  than  would  we  our- 
selves ;  but  that  they  regard  mere  conduct  as  of  so  much  more 
importance. 

When,  therefore,  she  praised  William  Edgerton  for  those 
qualities  which  I  well  knew  I  did  not  possess,  I  could  not  resist 
the  annoyance.  My  self-esteem  —  continually  active — stimu- 
lated as  it  had  been  by  the  constant  moral  strife,  to  which  it 
had  been  subjected  from  boyhood — was  continually  apprehend- 
ing disparagement.  Of  the  purity  of  Julia's  heart,  and  the 
chastity  of  her  conduct,  the  very  freedom  of  her  utterance  was 
conclusive.  Had  she  felt  one  single  improper  emotion  toward 
William  Edgerton,  her  lips  would  never  have  voluntarily  ut- 
tered his  name,  and  never  in  the  language  of  applause.  On 
this  head  I  had  not  then  the  slightest  apprehension.  It  was 
not  jealousy  so  much  as  egdisme  that  was  preying  upon  me. 
Whatever  it  was,  however,  it  could  not  be  repressed  as  I 
listened  to  the  eulogistic  language  of  my  wife.  I  strove,  but 
could  not  subdue,  altogether,  the  evil  spirit  which  was  fast  be- 
coming predominant  within  me.  Yet,  though  speaking  under 
its  immediate  influence,  I  was  very  far  from  betraying  its  true 
nature.  My  egdisme  had  not  yet  made  such  advances  as  to  be- 
come reckless  and  incautious.  I  surprised  her  by  my  answer 
to  her  eulogies. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  amiable — he  is  amiable — but  that  is 
not  enough  for  a  man.  He  must  be  something  more  than  ami- 
able, if  he  would  escape  the  imputation  of  being  feeble  —  some- 
thing more  if  he  would  be  anything !" 

Julia  looked  at  me  with  eyes  of  profound  and  dilating  aston- 
ishment. Having  got  thus  far,  it  was  easy  to  advance.  The 
first  step  is  half  the  journey  in  all  such  cases. 


PROGRESS   OF   THE   EVIL   SPIRIT.  151 

"  William  Edgerton  is  a  little  too  amiable,  perhaps,  for  his 
own  good.  It  makes  him  listless  and  worthless.  He  will  do 
nothing  at  pictures,  wasting  his  time  only  when  he  should  be  at 
his  business." 

"  But  did  I  not  understand  you,  Edward,  that  he  was  a  man 
of  fortune,  and  independent  of  his  profession  ?"  she  answered 
timidly. 

"  Even  that  will  not  justify  a  man  in  becoming  a  trifler.  No 
man  should  waste  his  time  in  painting,  unless  he  makes  a  trade 
of  it." 

"  But  his  leisure,  Edward,"  suggested  Julia,  with  a  look  of 
increasing  timidity. 

"His  leisure,  indeed,  Julia; — but  he  has  been  here  all  day 
—  day  after  day.  If  painting  is  such  a  passion  with  him,  let 
him  abandon  law  and  take  to  it.  But  he  should  not  pursue  one 
art  while  professing  another.  It  is  as  if  a  man  hankered  after 
that  which  he  yet  lacked  the  courage  to  challenge  and  pursue 
openly.' 

"  I  don't  think  you  love  pictures  as  you  used  to,  Edward," 
she  remarked  to  me,  after  a  little  interval  passed  in  unusual 
silence 

"  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  have  matters  of  more  consequence 
to  attend  to  You  seem  sufficiently  devoted  to  them  now  to  ex- 
cuse my  indifference." 

•'•  Surely,  dear  Edward,  something  I  have  done  vexes  you. 
Tell  mes  husband.  Do  not  spare  me.  Say,  in  what  have  I 
offended?" 

I  Lad  not  the  courage  to  be  ingenuous.     Ah  !  if  I  had  ! 

'Nay,  you  b.-sve  not  offended,"  I  answered  hastily — "I  am 
only  worried  w-fli  some  unmanageable  thoughts.  The  law,  you 
know,  Is  full  \>f  pr  vv  hing,  exciting,  irritating  necessities." 

She  looked  at  Tie  with  a  kind  but  searching  glance.  My  soul 
seemed  to  shrink  from  that  scrutiny.  My  eyes  sunk  beneath 
her  gaze. 

"  I  wish  I  kn-dw  how  to  console  you,  Edward  :  to  make  you 
entirely  happy.  I  pray  for  it,  Edward.  I  thought  we  were 
always  to  be  so  happy.  Did  you  not  promise  me  that  you 
would  always  leave  your  cares  at  your  office — that  our  cottage 
should  be  sacred  to  love  and  peace  only  ?" 


152  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

She  put  her  arms  about  my  neck,  and  looked  into  my  face 
with  such  a  sweet,  strange,  persuasive  smile  —  half  mirth,  half 
sadness — that  the  evil  spirit  was  suhdued  within  me.  I  clasped 
her  fervently  in  my  embrace,  with  all  my  old  feelings  of  con- 
fidence and  joy  renewed.  At  this  moment  the  servant  an- 
nounced Mr.  Edgerton,  and  with  a  etart — a  movement — 
scarcely  as  gentle  as  it  should  have  been,  I  put  the  fond  and 
still  beloved  woman  from  my  embrace ! 


CHANGES   OF   HOME.  158 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

CHANGES   OF    HOME. 

PROM  this  time  my  intercourse  with  William  Edgerton  was, 
on  my  part,  one  of  the  most  painful  and  difficult  constraint.  I 
had  nothing  to  reproach  him  with ;  no  grounds  whatever  for 
quarrel;  and  could  not,  in  his  case  —  regarding  the  long  inti- 
macy which  I  had  maintained  with  himself  and  father,  and  the 
obligations  which  were  due  from  me  to  both  —  adopt  such  a 
manner  of  reserve  and  distance  as  to  produce  the  result  of  indif- 
ference and  estrangement  which  I  now  anxiously  desired.  I 
was  still  compelled  to  meet  him  —  meet  him,  too,  with  an  affec- 
tation of  good  feeling  and  good  humor,  which  I  soon  found  it, 
of  all  things  in  the  world,  the  most  difficult  even  to  pretend. 
How  much  would  I  have  given  could  he  only  have  provoked 
me  to  anger  on  any  ground  —  could  he  have  given  me  an  occa- 
sion for  difference  of  any  sort  or  to  any  degree  —  anything 
which  could  have  justified  a  mutual  falling  off  from  the  old  inti- 
macy !  But  William  Edgerton  was  meekness  and  kindness  it- 
self. His  confidence  in  me  was  of  the  most  unobservant,  suspi- 
cionless  character;  either  that,  or  I  succeeded  better  than  I 
thought  in  the  effort  to  maintain  the  external  aspects  of  old 
friendship.  He  saw  nothing  of  change  in  my  deportment.  He 
seemed  not  to  see  it,  at  least ;  and  came  as  usual,  or  more  fre- 
quently than  usual,  to  my  house,  until,  at  length,  the  studio  of 
my  wife  was  quite  as  much  his  as  hers  —  nay,  more  ;  for,  after  a 
brief  space,  whether  it  was  that  Julia  saw  what  troubled  me,  or 
felt  herself  the  imprudence  of  Edgerton's  conduct,  she  almost 
entirely  surrendered  it  to  him.  She  was  not  now  so  often  to 
be  seen  in  it. 

This  proceeding  alarmed  me.  I  dreaded  lest  my  secret 
should  be  discovered.  I  was  shocked  lest  my  wife  should  sup- 
pose me  jealous.  The  feeling  is  one  which  carries  with  it  a 

7* 


154  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND   HEART. 

sufficiently  severe  commentary,  in  the  fact  that  most  men  are 
heartily  ashamed  to  be  thought  to  suffer  from  it.  But,  if  it 
vexed  me  to  think  that  she  should  know  or  suspect  the  truth, 
how  much  more  was  I  troubled  lest  it  should  be  seen  or  sus- 
pected by  others !  This  fear  led  to  new  circumspection.  I 
now  affected  levities  of  demeanor  and  remark ;  studiously  ab- 
sented myself  from  home  of  an  evening,  leaving  my  wife  with 
Edgerton,  or  any  other  friend  who  happened  to  be  present ;  and, 
though  I  began  no  practices  of  profligacy,  such  as  are  common 
to  young  scapegraces  in  all  times,  I  yet,  to  some  moderate  ex- 
tent, affected  them. 

A  tone  of  sadness  now  marked  the  features  of  my  wife. 
There  was  an  expression  of  anxiety  in  her  countenance,  which, 
amid  all  her  previous  sufferings,  I  had  never  seen  there  before. 
She  did  not  complain ;  but  sometimes,  when  we  sat  alone  to- 
gether, I  reading,  perhaps,  and  she  sewing,  she  would  drop  her 
work  in  her  lap,  and  sigh  suddenly  and  deeply,  as  if  the  first 
shadows  of  the  upgathering  gloom  were  beginning  to  cloud  her 
young  and  innocent  spirit,  and  force  her  apprehensions  into 
utterance.  This  did  not  escape  me,  but  I  read  its  signification, 
as  witches  are  said  to  read  the  Bible,  backward.  A  gloomier 
fancy  filled  my  brain  as  I  heard  her  unconscious  sigh. 

"It  is  the  language  of  regret.  She  laments  our  marriage. 
She  could  have  found  another,  surely,  who  could  have  made 
her  happier.  Perhaps,  had  Edgerton  and  herself  known  each 
other  intimately  before  ! — " 

Dark,  perverse  imagining  !  It  crushed  me.  I  felt,  I  can  not 
tell,  what  bitterness.  Let  no  one  suppose  that  I  endured  less 
misery  than  I  inflicted.  The  miseries  of  the  damned  could  not 
have  exceeded  mine  in  some  of  the  moments  when  these  cruel 
conjectures  filled  my  mind.  Then  followed  some  such  proofs  as 
as  these  of  the  presence  of  the  Evil  One  :• — 

"  You  sigh,  Julia.     You  are  unhappy." 

"  Unhappy  ?  no,  dear  Edward,  not  unhappy  !  What  makes 
f  ou  think  so  ]" 

"  What  makes  you  sigh,  then  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  am  certainly  not  unhappy.  Did  I  sigh, 
Edward?" 

"  Yes,  a\id  seemingly  from  the  very  bottom  of  your  lieart,     J 


CHANGES  0*    HOME,  155 

fzar,  Julia,  that  you  are  not  happy ;  nay,  I  am  sure  you  are 
not !  I  feel  that  I  am  not  the  man  to  make  you  happy.  I  am 
a  perverse — " 

"  Nay,  Edward,  now  you  speak  so  strangely,  and  your  brow 
is  stern,  and  your  tones  tremble !  What  can  it  be  afflicts  you  1 
You  are  angry  at  something,  dear  Edward.  Surely,  it  can  not 
be  with  me." 

''And  if  it  were,  Julia,  I  am  afraid  it  would  give  you  little 
concern." 

"  Now,  Edward,  you  are  cruel.  You  do  me  wrong.  You  do 
yourself  wrong.  Why  should  you  suppose  that  it  would  give 
me  little  concern  to  see  you  angry  1  So  far  from  this,  I  should 
regard  it  as  the  greatest  misery  which  I  had  to  suffer.  Do  not 
speak  so,  dearest  Edward  —  do  not  fancy  such  things.  Believe 
me,  my  husband,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  know  nothing  half  so 
dear  to  me  as  j  our  love — nothing  that  I  would  not  sacrifice 
with  a  pleasure,  to  secure,  to  preserve  that  /" 

"  Ah  !  would  you  give  up  painting  1" 

"  Painting !  that  were  a  small  sacrifice  !  I  worked  at  it  only 
because  you  used  to  like  it." 

"  What,  you  think  I  do  not  like  it  now  V9 

u  I  know  you  do  not." 

"  But  you  paint  still  ?" 

"  No  !  I  have  not  handled  brush  or  pencil  for  a  week.  Mr. 
Eclgerton  was  reproaching  me  only  yesterday  for  my  neglect." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  Well,  you  promised  him  to  resume,  did  you 
not  1  He  is  a  rare  persuader !  He  is  so  amiable,  so  mild — you 
could  not  well  resist." 

It  was  from  her  face  that  I  formed  a  rational  conjecture  of 
the  expression  that  must  have  appeared  in  mine.  Her  eyes 
dilated  with  a  look  of  timid  wonder,  not  unmixed  with  appre- 
hension. She  actually  shrunk  back  a  space ;  then,  approach- 
ing, laid  her  hand  upon  my  wrist,  as  she  exclaimed : — 

"  God  of  heaven,  Edward,  what  strange  thought  is  in  your 
bosom  1  what  is  the  meaning  of  that  look  ?  Look  not  so  again, 
if  you  would  not  kill  me !" 

I  averted  my  face  from  hers,  but  without  speaking.  She 
1  'Tew  her  arms  around  my  neck. 

"Do  not  turn  away  from  me,  Edward.     Do  not,  do  not,  J 


156  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND  HEART, 

entreat  you  !  You  must  not — no  !  not  till  you  tell  me  what  :c 
troubling  you — not  till  I  soothe  you,  and  make  you  love  me 
again  as  much  as  you  did  at  first." 

When  I  turned  to  her  again,  the  tears — hot,  scalding  tears 
— were  already  streaming  down  my  cheeks. 

"  Julia,  God  knows  I  love  you  !  Never  woman  yet  was  mor, 
devotedly  loved  by  man!  I  love  you  too  much  —  too  deepl} 
— too  entirely  !  Alas,  I  love  nothing  else  !" 

"  Say  not  that  you  love  me  too  much  —  that  can  not  be  !  73  c 
I  not  love  you — you  only,  you  altogether?  Should  I  not  have 
your  whole  love  in  return  ?" 

"Ah,  Julia !  but  my  love  is  a  convulsive  eagerness  of  soul— 
a  passion  that  knows  no  limit !  It  is  not  that  my  heart  is  en- 
tirely yours :  it  is  that  it  is  yours  with  a  frenzied  desperation. 
There  is  a  fanaticism  in  love  as  in  religion.  My  l.«.  ve  is  that 
fanaticism.  It  burns — it  commands — where  yours  would  but 
soothe  and  solicit." 

"But  is  mine  the  less  true — the  less  valuable  for  th's,  dear 
Edward  1" 

"  No,  perhaps  not !  It  may  be  even  more  true,  more  valua- 
ble ;  it  may  be  only  less  intense.  But  fanaticism,  you  know,  is 
exacting  —  nothing  more  so.  It  permits  no  half-passion,  no  mod- 
erate zeal.  It  insists  upon  devotion  like  its  own.  Ah,  Julia, 
could  you  but  love  as  I  do !" 

"  I  love  you  all,  Edward,  all  that  I  can,  and  as  it  belongs  6r. 
my  nature  to  love.  But  I  am  a  woman,  and  a  timid  one,  you 
know.  I  am  not  capable  of  that  wild  passion  which  you  feal. 
Were  I  to  indulge  it,  it  would  most  certainly  destroy  me.  Even 
as  it  sometimes  appears  in  you,  it  terrifies  and  unnerves  me. 
You  are  so  impetuous  !" 

"Ah,  you  would  have  only  the  meek,  the  amiable  \" 

And  thus,  with  an  implied  sarcasm,  our  conversation  ended. 
Julia  turned  on  me  a  look  of  imploring,  which  was  naturally 
one  of  reproach.  It  did  not  have  its  proper  influence  upon  me. 
I  seized  my  hat,  and  hurried  from  the  house.  I  rushed,  rather 
than  walked,  through  the  streets ;  and,  before  I  knew  where  I 
was,  I  found  myself  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  under  the  shade 
of  trees,  with  the  soft  evening  breeze  blowing  up<  n  me,  and  the 
placid  moon  sailing  quietly  above.  I  threw  myself  down  upon 


CHANGES  OF  HOME.  157 

the  grass,  and  delivered  myself  up  to  gloomy  thoughts.  Here 
was  I,  then,  scarcely  twenty-five  years  old ;  young,  vigorous  ; 
with  a  probable  chance  of  fortune  before  me ;  a  young  and 
lovely  wife,  the  very  creature  of  my  first  and  only  choice,  one 
whom  I  tenderly  loved,  whom,  if  to  seek  again,  I  should  again, 
and  again,  and  only,  seek !  Yet  I  was  miserable — miserable 
in  the  very  possession  of  my  first  hopes,  my  best  joys — the 
very  treasure  that  had  always  seemed  the  dearest  in  my  sight. 
Miserable  blind  heart !  miserable  indeed  !  For  what  was  there 
to  make  me  miserable  1  Absolutely  nothing — nothing  that  the 
outer  world  could  give  —  nothing  that  it  could  ever  take  away. 
But  what  fool  is  it  that  fancies  there  must  be  a  reason  for  one's 
wretchedness  1  The  reason  is  in  our  own  hearts ;  in  the  per- 
verseness  which  can  make  of  its  own  heaven  a  hell !  not  often 
fashion  a  heaven  out  of  hell ! 

Brooding,  I  lay  upon  the  sward,  meditating  unutterable  things, 
and  as  far  as  ever  from  any  conclusion.  Of  one  thing  alone  I 
was  satisfied — that  I  was  unutterably  miserable;  that  my  des- 
tiny was  written  in  sable ;  that  I  was  a  man  foredoomed  to  wo  ! 
Were  my  speculations  strange  or  unnatural !  Unnatural  in- 
deed !  There  is  a  class  of  surface-skimming  persons,  who  pro- 
nounce all  things  unnatural  which,  to  a  cool,  unprovoked,  and 
perhaps  unprovokable  mind,  appear  unreasonable :  as  if  a 
vexed  nature  and  exacting  passions  were  not  the  most  unrea- 
sonable yet  most  natural  of  all  moral  -agents.  My  woes  may 
have  been  groundless,  but  it  was  surely  not  unnatural  that  I 
felt  and  entertained  them. 

Thus,  with  bitter  mood,  growing  more  bitter  with  every  mo- 
ment of  its  unrestrained  indulgence,  I  gloomed  in  loneliness 
beside  the  banks  of  that  silvery  and  smooth-flowing  river.  Cer- 
tainly the  natural  world  around  me  lent  no  color  to  my  fancies. 
While  all  was  dark  within,  all  was  bright  without.  A  fiend  was 
tugging  at  my  heart;  while  from  a  little  white  cottage,  a  few 
hundred  yards  below,  which  grew  flush  with  the  margin  of  the 
stream,  there  itole  forth  the  tender,  tinkling  strains  of  a  guitar, 
probably  touched  by  fair  fingers  of  a  fair  maiden,  with  some 
enamored  boy,  blind  and  doting,  hovering  beside  her.  I,  too, 
had  stood  thus  and  hearkened  thus,  and  where  am  I — what 
ami! 


158  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

I  started  to  my  feet.  I  found  something  offensive  in  the  mu- 
sic. It  came  linked  with  a  song  which  I  had  heard  Julia  sing 
a  hundred  times ;  and  when  I  thought  of  those  hours  of  confi- 
dence, and  felt  myself  where  I  was,  alone — and  how  lone  !  — 
bitterer  than  ever  were  the  wayward  pangs  which  were  preying 
upon  the  tenderest  fibres  of  my  heart. 

In  the  next  moment  I  ceased  to  be  alone.  I  was  met  and 
jostled  by  another  person  as  I  bounded  forward,  much  too  rap- 
idly, in  an  effort  to  bury  myself  in  the  deeper  shadow  of  some 
neighboring  trees.  The  stranger  was  nearly  overthrown  in  the 
collision,  which  extorted  a  hasty  exclamation  from  his  lips,  not 
unmingled  with  a  famous  oath  or  two.  In  the  voice  I  recog- 
nised that  of  my  friend  Kingsley  —  the  well-known  pseudo- 
Kentucky  gentleman,  who  had  acted  a  part  so  important  in 
extricating  my  wife  from  her  mother's  custody.  I  made  myself 
known  to  him  in  apologizing  for  my  rudeness. 

"You  here!"  said  he;  "I  did  not  expect  to  meet  you.  I 
have  just  been  to  your  house,  where  I  found  your  wife,  and 
where  I  intended  to  stop  a  while  and  wait  for  you.  But  Bill 
Edgerton,  in  the  meanwhile,  popped  in,  and  after  that  I  could 
hear  nothing  but  pictures  and  paintings,  Madonnas,  Ecce  Ho- 
mos, and  the  like ;  till  I  began  to  fancy  that  I  smelt  nothing 
but  paint  and  varnish.  So  I  popped  out,  with  a  pretty  blunt 
excuse,  leaving  the  two  amateurs  to  talk  in  oil  and  water-colors, 
and  settle  the  principles  of  art  as  they  please.  Like  you,  I 
fancy  a  real  landscape,  here,  by  the  water,  and  under  the  green 
trees,  in  preference  to  a  thousand  of  their  painted  pictures." 

It  may  be  supposed  that  my  mood  underwent  precious  little 
improvement  after  this  communication.  Dark  conceits,  darker 
than  ever,  came  across  my  mind.  I  longed  to  get  away,  and 
return  to  that  home  from  which  I  had  banished  confidence !  — 
ah,  only  too  happy  if  there  still  lingered  hope  !  But  my  friend, 
blunt,  good-humored,  and  thoughtless  creature  as  he  was,  toolr 
for  granted  that  I  had  come  to  look  at  the  landscape,  to  admire 
water-views  by  moonlight,  and  drink  fresh  draughts  of  sea- 
breeze  from  the  southwest ;  and,  thrusting  his  arm  through  mine, 
he  dragged  me  on,  down,  almost  to  the  threshold  of  the  cottage, 
whence  still  issued  the  tinkle,  tinkle,  of  the  guitar  which  had 
first  driven  me  away. 


CHANGES  OF  HOME.  159 

"That  girl  sings  well.  Do  you  know  her  —  Miss  Davisont 
She's  soon  to  be  married,  they  say  (d — n  '  they  say,'  however 
—  the  neatest  scandal-monger,  if  not  mischief-maker  and  liar, 
in  tlu  world  !)  —  she  is  soon  to  be  married  to  young  Trescott  — 
a  cKver  lad  who  sniffles,  plays  on  the  flute,  wears  whisker  and 
imperial  on  the  most  cream-colored  and  effeminate  face  you 
e  /or  saw  !  A  good  fellow,  nevertheless,  but  a  silly  !  She  is  a 
good  fellow,  too,  rather  the  cleverest  of  the  twain,  and  perhaps 
the  oldest.  The  match,  if  match  it  really  is  to  be,  none  of  the 
wisest  for  that  very  reason.  The  damsel,  now-a-days,  who  mar 
ries  a  lad  younger  than  herself,  is  laying  up  a  large  stock  of 
pother,  which  is  to  bother  her  when  she  becomes  thirty — for 
even  young  ladies,  you  know,  after  forty,  may  become  thirty. 
A  sort  of  dispensation  of  nature.  She  sings  well,  nevertheless. 

I  said  something  —  it  matters  not  what.  Dark  images  of 
home  were  in  my  eyes.  I  heard  no  song — saw  no  landscape 
The  voice  of  Kingsley  was  a  sort  of  buzzing  in  my  ears. 

"  You  are  dull  to-nigh4,  but  that  song  ought  to  soothe  you. 
What  a  cheery,  light-hearted  wench  it  is !  Her  voice  does 
seem  so  to  rise  in  air,  shaking  its  wings,  and  crying  tira-la ! 
tira-la !  with  an  enthusiasm  which  is  catching  !  I  almost  feel 
prompted  to  kick  up  my  heels,  throw  a  summerset,  and,  while 
turning  on  my  axis,  give  her  an  echo  of  tira-la !  tira-la !  tira-la ! 
after  her  own  fashion." 

"  You  are  certainly  a  happy,  mad  fellow,  Kingsley  !"  was  my 
faint,  cheerless  commentary  upon  a  gayety  of  heart  which  1 
could  not  share,  and  the  unreserved  expression  of  which,  at 
that  moment,  only  vexed  me. 

"And  you  no  glad  one,  Clifford.  That  song,  which  almost 
prompts  me  to  dance,  makes  no  impression  on  you !  By-the- 
way,  your  wife  used  to  sing  so  well,  and  now  I  never  hear  her 

That  d d  painting,  if  you  don't  mind,  will  make  her  give 

up  everything  else  !  As  for  Bill  Edgerton,  he  cares  for  nothing 
else  out  his  varnish,  trees,  and  umber-hills,  and  streaky  water. 
You  shouldn't  let  him  fill  your  wife's  mind  with  this  oil-and- 
varnish  spirit  —  giving  up  the  piano,  the  guitar,  and  that  sweeter 
instrument  than  all,  her  own  voice.  D — n  the  paintings  !  — 
his  long  talk  on  the  subject  almost  makes  me  sick  of  everything 
like  a  picture.  I  now  look  upon  a  beautiful  landscape  like  this, 


160  CONFESSION,   OU  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

as  a  tiling  that  is  shortly  to  be  desecrated — taken  in  vain—* 
scratched  out  of  shape  and  proportion  upon  a  deal-board,  and 
colored  after  such  a  fashion  as  never  before  was  seen  in  the  nat- 
ural world,  upon,  or  under,  or  about  this  solid  earth.  D — n 
the  pictures,  I  say  again! — but,  for  God's  sake,  Clifford,  don't 
let  your  wife  give  up  the  music  !  Make  her  play,  even  if  she 
don't  like  it.  She  likes  the  painting  best,  but  I  wouldn't  allow 
it !  A  wife  is  a  sort  of  person  that  we  set  to  do  those  things 
that  we  wish  done  and  can't  do  for  ourselves.  That's  my  defi- 
nition of  a  wife.  Now,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  with  my  pres- 
ent love  for  music  and  dislike  of  pictures,  I'd  put  her  at  the 
piano,  and  put  the  paint-saucers,  and  the  oil,  and  the  smutted 
canvass,  out  of  the  window;  and  then  —  unless  he  came  to  his* 
senses  like  other  people — I'd  thrust  Bill  Edgerton  out  aftei 
them  !  I'd  never  let  the  best  friend  in  the  world  spoil  my  wife  " 

The  effect  of  this  random  chatter  of  my  good-natured  friend 
upon  my  mind  may  well  be  imagined.  It  was  fortunate  tha* 
he  was  quite  too  much  occupied  in  what  he  was  saying  to  note 
my  annoyance.  In  vain,  anxious  to  be  let  off,  was  I  restrained 
in  utterance  —  cold,  unpliable.  The  good  fellow  took  for  granted 
that  it  was  an  act  of  friendship  to  try  to  amuse ;  and  thus,  yearn- 
ing with  a  nameless  discontent  and  apprehension  to  get  home. 
I  was  marched  to  and  fro  along  the  river-bank,  from  one  scene 
to  another — he,  meanwhile,  utterly  heedless  of  time,  and  as 
actively  bent  on  perpetual  motion  as  if  his  sinews  were  of  stee' 
and  his  flesh  iron.  Meanwhile,  the  guitar  ceased,  and  the  song 
in  the  cottage  of  Miss  Davison ;  the  lights  went  out  in  that  and 
all  the  other  dwellings  in  sight ;  the  moon  waned ;  and  it  was 
not  till  the  clock  from  a  distant  steeple  tolled  out  the  houi  of 
eleven  with  startling  solemnity,  that  Kingsley  exclaimed : — 

"  Well,  mon  ami,  we  have  had  a  ramble,  and  I  trust  I  have 
somewhat  dissipated  your  gloomy  fit.  And  now  to  bed — what 
say  you  ?  —  with  what  appetite  we  may  !" 

With  what  appetite,  indeed  !  We  separated.  I  rushed  home- 
ward, the  moment  he  was  out  of  sight  —  once  more  stood  before 
my  own  dwelling.  There  the  lights  remained  unextinguished 
and  William  Edgertou  was  still  a  tenant  of  my  parlor ! 


SELF-HUMILIATION.       JT<OD 


fjtFt    ifo\7—  'V^w.   aJi  |:K<;^  ;«>u- 
.a;folJ?,*>frn  ooaVHsv^nf  lo  ijs^fi  I     ?  I^l^h  I  Jr.J-t  o-rr  o:  J:.oKr*l» 


,ll*f;r:    nY/'*    Yi'ft    if^t!.?;'.'/ 

6HAPTEB   XXti.^ 

SELF-HUMILIATION. 

I  HAD  not  the  courage  to  enter  my  own  dwelling  !  My  heart 
sank  within  me.  Tt  was  as  if  the  whole  hope  of  a  long  life,  an 
intense  desire,  a  keen  unremitting  pursuit,  had  suddenly  been  for 
ever  baffled.  Let  no  one  who  has  not  been  in  my  situation ;  who 
has  not  been  governed  by  like  moral  and  social  influences  from 
the  beginning ;  who  knows  not  my  sensibilities,  and  the  organi- 
zation—  singular  and  strange  it  may  be  —  of  my  mind  and  body; 
let  no  such  person  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  any 
thing  unnatural,  however  unreasonable  and  unreasoning,  in  the 
wild  passion  which  possessed  me.  I  look  back  upon  it  with 
some  surprise  myself.  The  fears  which  I  felt,  the  sufferings  I 
endured,  however  unreasonable,  were  yet  true  to  my  training. 
That  training  made  me  selfish;  how  selfish  let  my  blindness 
show  !  In  the  blindness  of  self  I  could  see  nothing  but  the  thing 
I  feared,  the  one  phantom —  phantom  though  it  were — which 
was  sufficient  to  quell  and  crush  all  the  better  part  of  man  with- 
in me,  banish  all  the  real  blessings  which  were  at  command 
around  me.  I  gave  but  a  single  second  glance  through  the  win- 
dows of  my  habitation,  and  then  darted  desperately  away  from 
the  entrance !  I  bounded,  without  a  consciousness,  through  the 
now  still  and  dreary  streets,  and  found  myself,  without  intending 
it,  once  more  beside  the  river,  whose  constant  melancholy  chi- 
dings,  seemed  the  echoes — though  in  the  faintest  possible  degree 
—  of  the  deep  waters  of  some  apprehensive  sorrow  then  rolling 
through  all  the  channels  of  my  soul. 

What  was  it  that  I  feared  I  What  was  it  that  I  sought  1  Was 
it  love  1  Can  it  be  that  the  strange  passion  which  we  call  by 
this  name,  was  the  source  of  that  sad  frenzy  which  filled  and 
afflicted  my  heart  1  And  was  I  not  successful  in  my  love  1  Had 


162  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

I  not  found  the  sought?  —  won  the  withheld?  What  was 
denied  to  me  that  I  desired  ?  I  asked  of  myself  these  questions. 
I  asked  them  in  vain.  I  could  not  answer  them.  I  believe  that 
I  can  answer  now.  It  was  sincerity,  earnestness,  devotion  from 
her,  all  speaking  through  an  intensity  like  that  which  I  felt 
within  my  own  soul. 

Now,  Julia  lacked  this  earnestness,  this  intensity.  Accustom- 
ed to  submission,  her  manner  was  habitually  subdued.  Her 
strongest  utterance  was  a  tear,  and  that  was  most  frequently 
hidden.  She  did  not  respond  to  me  in  the  language  in  which 
my  affections  were  wont  to  speak.  Sincerity  she  did  not  lack 
—  far  from  it — she  was  truth  itself!  It  is  the  keener  pang  to 
my  conscience  now,  that  I  am  compelled  to  admit  this  conviction. 
Her  modes  of  utterance  were  not  less  true  than  mine.  They 
were  not  less  significant  of  truth  ;  but  they  were  after  a  different 
fashion.  In  a  moment  of  calm  and  reason,  I  might  have  believed 
this  truth ;  nay,  I  knew  it,  even  at  those  moments  when  I  was 
most  unjust.  It  was  not  the  truth  that  I  required  so  much  as 
the  presence  of  an  attachment  which  could  equal  mine  in  its 
degree  and  strength.  This  was  not  in  her  nature.  She  was 
one  taught  to  subdue  her  nature,  to  repress  the  tendencies  of  her 
heart,  to  submit  in  silence  and  in  meekness.  She  had  invaria- 
bly done  so  until  the  insane  urgency  of  her  mother  made  her 
desperate.  But  for  this  desperation  she  had  still  submitted,  per- 
haps, had  never  been  my  wife.  In  the  fervent  intensity  of  my 
own  love,  I  fancied,  from  the  beginning,  that  there  was  some- 
thing too  temperate  in  the  tone  of  hers.  Were  I  to  be  exam- 
hied  now,  on  this  point,  I  should  say  that  her  deportment  was 
one  which  declared  the  nicest  union  of  sensibility  and  maidenly 
propriety.  But,  compared  with  mine,  her  passions  were  feeble, 
frigid.  Mine  were  equally  intense  and  exacting.  Perhaps,  had 
she  even  responded  to  my  impetuosity  with  a  like  fervor,  I  should 
have  recoiled  from  her  with  a  feeling  of  disgust  much  more  rapid 
and  much  more  legitimate,  than  was  that  of  my  present  frenzy . 

Frenzy  it  was !  and  it  led  me  to  the  performance  of  those 
things  of  which  I  shame  to  speak.  But  the  truth,  and  its  honest 
utterance  now,  must  be  one  of  those  forms  of  atonement  with 
whi^Ji  I  may  hope,  perhaps  vainly,  to  lessen,  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  some  of  my  human  offences.  I  had  scarcely  reached 


SELF-HU.vtiLlATlOS.  163 

the  water-side  before  a  new  imvnlse  drove  me  back.  You  will 
scarcely  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  descended  to  the  base 
character  of  the  spy  upon  my  Household.  The  blush  is  red  on 
my  cheek  while  I  record  the  shameful  error.  I  entered  the  gar 
den,  stole  like  a  felon  to  the  lattice  of  the  apartment  in  which 
my  wife  sat  with  her  guest,  and  looked  in  with  a  greedy  fear, 
upon  the  features  of  the  two ! 

What  were  my  own  features  then  ?  What  the  expression  of 
my  eyes  ?  It  was  well  that  I  could  not  see  them  ;•  I  felt  that 
they  must  be  frightful.  But  what  did  I  expect  to  see  in  this  es- 
pionage ?  As  I  live,  honestly  now,  and  with  what  degree  of 
honesty  I  then  possessed,  I  may  truly  declare  that  when  I 
thought  upon  the  subject  at  all,  I  had  no  more  suspicion  that  my 
wife  would  be  guilty  of  any  gross  crime,  than  I  had  of  the  guilt 
of  the  Deity  himself.  Far  from  it.  Such  a  fancy  never  troubled 
me.  But,  what  was  it  to  me,  loving  as  I  did,  exclusive,  and 
selfish,  and  exacting  as  I  was — what  was  it  tome  if,  forbearing 
all  crime  of  conduct,  she  yet  regarded  another  with  eyes  of 
idolatry — if  her  mind  was  yielded  up  to  him  in  deference  and 
regard ;  and  thoughts,  disparaging  to  me,  filled  her  brain  with 
his  superior  worth,  manners,  merits  ?  He  had  tastes,  perhaps 
talents,  which  I  had  not.  In  the  forum,  in  all  the  more  ener- 
getic, more  imposing  performances  of  life,  William  Edgerton,  I 
knew,  could  take  no  rank  in  competition  with  myself.  But  I 
was  no  ladies'  man.  I  had  no  arts  of  society.  My  manners 
were  even  rude.  My  address  was  direct  almost  to  bluntness.  I 
had  no  discriminating  graces,  and  could  make  no  sacrifice,  in 
that  school  of  polish,  where  the  delicacy  is  too  apt  to  become 
false,  and  the  performances  trifling.  It  is  idle  to  dwell  on  this ; 
still  more  idle  to  speculate  upon  probable  causes.  It  may  be 
that  there  are  persons  in  the  world  of  both  sexes,  and  governed 
by  like  influences,  who  have  been  guilty  of  like  follies ;  to  them 
my  revelations  may  be  of  service.  My  discoveries,  if  I  have 
made  any,  were  quite  too  late  to  be  of  much  help  to  me. 

To  resume,  I  prowled  like  a  guilty  phantom  around  my  own 
habitation.  I  scanned  closely,  with  the  keenest  eyes  of  jealousy, 
every  feature,  every  movement  of  the  two  within.  In  the  eyes 
of  Edgerton,  I  beheld — I  did  not  deceive  myself  in  this — I 
beheld  the  speaking  soul,  devoted,  rapt,  full  of  love  for  the  ob- 


164  CONFESSION,   OR  TJE   BLIND    HEART. 

ject  of  his  survey  That  he  loved  her  was  to  me  sufficiently 
clear.  His  words  were  few,  faintly  spoken,  timid.  His  eyes 
did  not  encounter  hers ;  hut  when  hers  were  averted,  they 
riveted  their  fixed  glances  upon  her  face  with  the  adhe- 
rence of  the  yearning  steel  for  the  magnet !  Bitterly  did  I 
gnash  my  teeth — bitterly  did  my  spirit  risb  In  rebellion,  as  I 
noted  these  characteristics.  But,  vainly,  with  all  my  perversity 
of  feeling  and  judgment,  did  I  examine  the  air,  the  look,  the 
action,  the  ^expression,  the  tones,  the  words  of  my  wife,  to  make 
a  like  discovery.  All  was  passionless,  all  seeming  pure,  in  her 
whole  conduct.  She  was  gentle  in  her  manner,  kind  in  her 
words,  considerate  in  her  attentions;  but  so  entirely  at  ease,  so 
evidently  unconscious,  as  well  of  improper  thoughts  in  herself 
as  of  an  improper  tendency  in  him,  that,  though  still  resolute  to 
be  wilful  and  imhappy,  I  yet  could  see  nothing  of  which  I  could 
reasonably  complain.  Nay,  I  fancied  that  there  was  a  touch  of 
llstlessness,  amounting  to  indifference,  in  her  air,  as  if  she  really 
wished  him  to  be  gone ;  and,  for  a  moment,  my  heart  beat  with 
a  returning  flood  of  tenderness,  that  almost  prompted  me  to  rush 
suddenly  into  the  apartment  and  clasp  her  to  my  arms. 

At  length,  Edgerton  departed.  When  he  rose  to  do  so,  I  felt 
the  awkwardness  of  my  situation  —  the  meanness  of  which  I 
had  been  guilty  —  the  disgrace  which  would  follow  detection. 
The  shame  I  already  felt ;  but,  though  sickening  beneath  it,  the 
passion  which  drove  me  into  the  commission  of  so  slavish  an  act, 
was  still  superior  to  all  others,  and  could  not  then  be  overcome. 
I  hurried  from  the  window  and  from  the  premises  while  he  was 
taking  his  leave.  My  mind  was  still  in  a  frenzy.  I  rambled 
off,  unconsciously,  to  the  most  secluded  places  along  the  suburbs, 
endeavoring  to  lose  the  thoughts  that  troubled  me.  I  had  now 
a  new  cause  for  vexation.  I  was  haunted  by  a  conviction  of 
my  own  shame.  How  could  I  look  Julia  in  the  face — how  meet 
and  speak  to  her,  and  hear  the  accents  of  her  voice  and  my  own 
after  the  unworthy  espionage  which  I  had  instituted  upon  her  ? 
Would  not  my  eyes  betray  me — my  faltering  accents,  my 
abashed  looks,  my  flushed  and  burning  cheeks  ?  I  felt  that  it 
was  impossible  for  me  to  escape  detection.  I  was  sure  that  every 
look,  every  tone,  would  sufficiently  betray  iny  secret.  Perhaps 
I  should  not  have  felt  tliis  fear,  had  I  possessed  the  courage  t9 


SELF-HUMILIATION.  165 

resolve  against  the  repetition  of  my  error.  Could  I  have  de- 
clared this  resolution  to  myself,  to  forego  the  miserable  proceed- 
ing which  I  had  that  night  begun,  I  feel  that  I  should  then  have 
taken  one  large  step  toward  my  own  deliverance  from  that  for- 
midable fiend  which  was  then  raging  unmastered  in  my  soul. 
But  I  lacked  the  courage  for  this.  Fatal  deficiency  !  I  felt  im- 
pressed with  the  necessity  of  keeping  a  strict  watch  upon  Ed- 
gcrton.  I  had  seen,  with  eyes  that  could  not  be  deceived,  the 
feeling  which  had  been  expressed  in  his.  I  saw  that  he  loved 
her,  perhaps,  without  a  consciousness  himself  of  the  unhappy 
truth.  I  hurried  to  the  conclusion,  accordingly,  that  he  must  be 
looked  after.  I  did  not  so  immediately  perceive  that  in  looking 
after  him,  I  was,  in  truth,  looking  after  Julia ;  for  what  was  my 
watch  upon  Edgerton  but  a  watch  upon  her  ?  I  had  not  the 
confidence  in  her  to  leave  her  to  herself.  That  was  my  error. 
The  true  reasoning  by  which  a  man  in  my  situation  should  be 
governed,  is  comprised  in  a  nutshell.  Either  the  wife  is  virtuous 
or  she  is  not.  If  she  is  virtuous,  she  is  safe  without  my  espion- 
age. If  she  is  not,  all  the  watching  in  the  world  will  not  suffice 
to  rrake  her  so.  As  for  the  discovery  of  her  falsehood,  he  will 
make  that  fast  enough.  The  security  of  the  husband  lies  in  his 
wife's  purity,  not  in  his  own  eyes.  It  must  be  added  to  this  ar- 
gument that  the  most  virtuous  among  us,  man  or  woman,  is  still 
very  weak ;  and  neither  wife,  nor  daughter,  nor  son,  should  be 
exposed  to  Unnecessary  temptation.  Do  we  not  daily  implore 
in  our  own  prayers,  to  be  saved  from  temptation  ? 

I  need  not  strive  to  declare  what  were  my  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings as  I  wandered  off  from  my  dwelling  and  place  of  espionage 
that  night.  No  language  of  which  I  am  possessed  could  embody 
to  the  idea  of  the  reader  the  thousandth  part  of  what  I  suffered. 
An  insane  and  morbid  resentment  filled  my  heart.  A  close, 
heavy,  hot  stupor,  pressed  upon  my  brain.  My  limbs  seemed 
feeble  as  those  of  a  child.  I  tottered  in  the  streets.  The  stars, 
bright  mysterious  watchers,  seemed  peering  down  into  my  face 
with  looks  of  smiling  inquiry.  The  sudden  bark  of  a  watch-dog 
startled  and  unnerved  me.  I  felt  with  the  consciousness  of  a 
mean  action,  all  the  humiliating  weakness  which  belongs  to  it. 

It  took  me  a  goodly  hour  before  I  could  muster  up  courage 
to  return  home,  and  it  was  then  m'dnight.  Julia  had  retired  to 


166  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

her  chamber,  but  not  yet  to  her  couch.  She  flew  to  me  on  my 
entrance — to  my  arms.  I  shrunk  from  her  embraces;  but  she 
grasped  me  with  greater  firmness.  I  had  never  witnessed  so 
much  warmth  in  her  before.  It  surprised  me,  but  the  solution 
of  it  was  easy.  My  long  stay  had  made  her  apprehensive.  It 
was  so  unusual.  My  coldness,  when  she  embraced  me,  was  as 
startling  to  her,  as  her  sudden  warmth  was  surprising  to  me. 
She  pushed  me  from  her — still,  however,  holding  me  in  her 
grasp,  while  she  surveyed  me.  Then  she  started,  and  with 
newer  apprehensions. 

Well  she  might.  My  looks  alarmed  her.  My  hair  was  dis- 
hevelled and  moist  with  the  night-dews.  My  cheeks  were  very 
pale.  There  was  a  quick,  agitated,  and  dilating  fullness  of  my 
eyes,  which  rolled  hastily  about  the  apartment,  never  even 
resting  upon  her.  They  dared  not.  I  caught  a  hasty  glance 
of  myself  in  the  mirror,  and  scarcely  knew  my  own  features. 
It  was  natural  enough  that  she  should  be  alarmed.  She  clung 
to  me  with  increased  fervency.  She  spoke  hurriedly,  but  clear- 
ly, with  an  increased  and  novel  power  of  utterance,  the  due 
result  of  her  excitement.  Could  that  excitement  be  occasioned 
by  love  for  me  —  by  a  suspicion  of  the  truth,  namely,  that  I  had 
been  watching  her  ?  I  shuddered  as  this  last  conjecture  passed 
into  my  mind.  That,  indeed,  would  be  a  humiliation — worse, 
more  degrading,  by  far,  than  all. 

"  Oh,  why  have  you  left  me  —  so  long,  so  very  long?  where 
have  you  been  ?  what  has  happened  ?" 

"  Nothing  —  nothing." 

"Ah,  but  there  is  something,  Edward.  Speak!  what  is  it, 
dear  husband  ?  I  see  it  in  your  eyes,  your  looks !  Why  do 
you  turn  from  me?  Look  on  ine !  tell  me!  You  are  very 
pale,  and  your  eyes  are  so  wild,  so  strange !  You  are  sick, 
dear  Edward ;  you  are  surely  sick  :  tell  me,  what  has  happened  ?" 

Wild  and  hurried  as  they  were,  never  did  tones  of  more  touch- 
ing sweetness  fall  from  any  lips.  They  unmanned  —  nay,  I  use 
the  wrong  word  —  they  manned  me  for  the  time.  They  brought 
me  back  to  my  senses,  to  a  conviction  of  her  truth,  to  a  momen- 
tary conviction  of  my  own  folly.  My  words  fell  from  me  with- 
out effort  —  few,  hurried,  husky  —  but  it  was  a  sudden  heart- 
gush,  which  was  unrestrainable. 


SELF-HUMILIATION.  167 

"  Ask  me  not,  Julia — ask  me  nothing ;  but  love  me,  only  love 
me,  and  all  will  be  well  —  all  is  well." 

"  Do  I  not  —  ah  !  do  I  not  love  you,  Edward  ?" 
"  I  believe  you — God  be  praised,  I  do  believe  you !" 
"  Oh,  surely,  Edward,  you  never  doubted  this." 
"No,  no!  —  never!" 

Such  was  the  fervent  ejaculation  of  my  lips ;  such,  in  spite 
of  its  seeming  inconsistency,  was  the  real  belief  within  my  soul 
What  was  it,  then,  that  I  did  doubt  ?  wherefore,  then,  the  mis- 
ery, the  suspense,  the  suspicion,  which  grew  and  gathered,  cor- 
roding in  my  heart,  the  parent  of  a  thousand  unnamed  anxie- 
ties ?  It  will  be  difficult  to  answer.  The  heart  of  man  is  one 
of  those  strange  creations,  so  various  in  its  moods,  so  infinite  in 
its  ramifications,  so  subtle  and  sudden  in  its  transitions,  as  to 
defy  investigation  as  certainly  as  it  refuses  remedy  and  relief. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that,  with  one  schooled  as  mine  had  been, 
injuriously,  and  with  injustice,  there  is  little  certainty  in  any  of 
its  movements.  It  becomes  habitually  capricious,  feeds  upon 
passions  intensely,  without  seeming  detriment ;  and,  after  a  sea- 
son, prefers  the  unwholesome  nutriment  which  it  has  made  vital, 
to  those  purer  natural  sources  of  strength  and  succor,  without 
which,  though  it  may  still  enjoy  life,  it  can  never  know  hap- 
piness. 


168  CONFESSION,  OB  THE  BLIND   HEASR, 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

PROGRESS    OF    PASSION. 

"BtJT,  do  not  leave  me  another  time — not  so  long,  Edward 
Do  not  leave  me  alone.  Your  business  is  one  thing.  That  you 
must,  of  course,  attend  to;  but  hours  —  not  of  business  —  hours 
in  which  you  do  no  business — hours  of  leisure  —  your  evenings, 
Edward  —  these  you  must  share  with  me- — you  must  give  to 
me  entirely.  Ah  !  will  you  not  1  will  you  not  promise  me  ?" 

These  were  among  the  last  words  which  she  spoke  to  me  ere 
we  slept  that  night.  The  next  morning,  almost  at  awaking,  she 
resumed  the  same  language.  I  could  not  help  perceiving  that 
she  spoke  in  tones  of  greater  earnestness  than  usual — an  ear- 
nestness expressive  of  anxiety  for  which  I  felt  at  some  loss  to 
account.  Still,  the  tenor  of  what  she  said,  at  the  time,  gave  me 
pleasure  —  a  satisfaction  which  I  did  not  seek  to  conceal,  and 
which,  while  it  lasted,  was  the  sweetest  of  all  pleasures  to  my 
soul.  But  the  busy  devil  in  my  heart  made  his  suggestions  also, 
which  were  of  a  kind  to  produce  any  other  but  satisfying  emo- 
tions. While  I  stood  in  my  wife's  presence  —  in  the  hearing 
of  her  angel-voice,  and  beholding  the  pure  spirit  speaking  out 
from  her  eyes — he  lay  dormant,  rebuked,  within  his  prison- 
house,  crouching  in  quiet,  waiting  a  more  auspicious  moment 
for  activity.  Nor  was  he  long  in  waiting ;  and  then  his  cold, 
insinuating  doubts  —  his  inquiries  —  begot  and  startled  mine  ! 

"Very  good — all  very  good!"  Such  was  the  tone  of  his 
wvgsfitiona.  "  She  may  well  compound  for  the  evenings  with 
you,  since  ohs  gives  her  whole  morning?  fr  y?w  rival." 

Archimedes  asked  but  little  for  the  propulsion  cf  *"  vnAd 
The  jealous  spirit  —  a  spirit  jealous  like  mine  —  asks  still  ^tm» 
for  the  moving  of  that  little  but  densely-populous  world,  the 
human  heart.  I  forgot  the  sweet  tones  of  my  wife's  words — 


PROGRESS   OP  PASSION.  169 

the  pure- souled  words  themselves — tones  and  words  which, 
while  their  sounds  yet  lingered  in  my  ears,  I  could  not  have 
questioned  —  I  did  not  dare  to  question.  The  tempter  grew  in 
the  ascendant  the  moment  I  had  passed  out  of  her  sight;  and 
when  I  met  William  Edgerton  the  next  day,  he  acquired 
greatly-increased  power  over  my  understanding. 

William  Edgerton  had  evidently  undergone  a  change.  He 
no  longer  met  my  glances  boldly  with  his  own.  Perhaps,  had 
he  done  so,  my  eyes  would  have  been  the  first  to  shrink  from 
the  encounter.  He  looked  down,  or  looked  aside,  when  he 
spoke  to  me ;  his  words  were  few,  timorous,  hesitating,  but  stu- 
diously conciliatory ;  and  he  lingered  no  longer  in  my  presence 
than  was  absolutely  unavoidable.  Was  there  not  a  conscious- 
ness in  this?  and  what  consciousness?  The  devil  at  my  heart 
answered,  and  answered  with  truth,  "He  loves  your  wife."  It 
would  have  been  well,  perhaps,  had  the  cruel  fiend  said  nothing 
farther.  Alas !  I  would  have  pardoned,  nay,  pitied  William 
Edgerton,  had  the  same  chuckling  spirit  not  assured  me  that 
she  also  was  not  insensible  to  him.  I  was  continually  reminded 
of  the  words,  "  Your  business  must,  of  course,  be  attended  to !" 
—  "What  a  considerate  wife !"  said  the  tempter;  "how  very 
unusual  with  young  wives,  with  whom  business  is  commonly 
the  very  last  consideration  !" 

That  very  day,  I  found,  on  reaching  home,  that  William 
Edgerton  had  been  there — had  gone  there  almost  the  moment 
after  he  had  left  me  at  the  office ;  and  that  he  had  remained 
there/obviously  at  work  in  the  studio,  until  the  time  drew  nigh 
for  my  return  to  dinner.  My  feelings  forbade  any  inquiries. 
These  facts  were  all  related  by  my  wife  herself.  I  did  not  ask 
to  hear  them.  I  asked  for  nothing  more  than  she  told.  The 
dread  that  my  jealousy  should  be  suspected  made  me  put  on  a 
sturdy  aspect  of  indifference ;  and  that  exquisite  sense  of  deli- 
cacy, which  governed  every  movement  of  my  wife's  heart  and 
conduct,  forbade  her  to  say  —  what  yet, she  certainly  desired 
I  should  know — that,  in  all  that  time,  she  had  iiut  seen  him, 
nor  he  her.  She  had  studiously  kept  aloof  in  her  chamber  so 
long  as  he  remained.  Meanwhile,  I  brooded  over  their  sup- 
posed long  and  secret  interviews.  These  I  took  for  granted. 
The  happiness  they  felt — the  mutual  smile  they  witnessed— 

8 


170  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

the  unconscious  sighs  they  uttered !  Such  a  picture  of  their 
supposed  felicity  as  my  morbid  imagination  conjured  up  would 
have  roused  a  doubly  damned  and  damning  fiend  in  the  heart 
of  any  mortal. 

What  a  task  was  mine,  struggling  with  these  images,  these 
convictions  !  — my  pride  struggling  to  conceal,  my  feeling*  strug- 
gling to  endure.  Then,  there  were  other  conflicts.  What  friends 
had  the  Edgertons  been  to  me  —  father,  mother  —  nay,  that  bon 
himself,  once  so  fondly  esteemed,  once  so  fondly  esteeming ! 
Of  course,  no  ties  such  as  these  could  have  made  me  patient 
under  wrong.  But  they  were  such  as  to  render  it  necessary 
that  the  wrong  should  be  real,  unquestionable,  beyond  doubt, 
beyond  excuse.  This  I  felt,  this  I  resolved. 

"  I  will  wait !  I  will  be  patient !  I  will  endure,  though  the 
vulture  gnaws  incessant  at  my  heart !  I  will  do  nothing  pre- 
cipitate. No,  no  :  I  must  beware  of  that !  But  let  me  prove 
them  treacherous — let  them  once  falter,  and  go  aside  from  the 
straight  path,  and  then  —  oh,  then  !" 

Such,  as  in  spoken  words,  was  the  unspoken  resolution  of  my 
soul ;  and  this  resolution  required,  first  of  all,  that  I  should 
carry  out  the  base  purpose  which,  without  a  purpose,  I  had 
already  begun.  I  must  be  a  spy  upon  their  interviews.  They 
must  be  followed,  watched  —  eyes,  looks,  hands !  Miserable  ne- 
cessity !  but,  under  my  present  feelings  and  determination,  not 
the  less  a  necessity.  And  I,  alone,  must  do  it ;  I,  alone,  must 
peer  busily  into  these  mysteries,  the  revelation  of  which  can 
result  only  in  my  own  ruin  —  seeking  still,  with  an  earnest  dili- 
gence, to  discover  that  which  I  should  rather  have  prayed  for 
eternal  an-d  unmitigated  blindness,  that  I  might  not  see !  Aline 
was,  indeed,  the  philosophy  of  the  madman. 

I  persevered  in  it  like  one.  I  yielded  all  opportunities  for 
the  meeting  of  the  parties  —  all  opportunities  which,  in  yield- 
ing, did  not  expose  me  to  the  suspicion  of  having  any  sinister 
object.  If,  for  example,  I  found,  or  could  conjecture,  that  Wil- 
liam Edgerton  was  likely  to  be  at  my  house  this  or  that  even- 
ing, I  studiously  intimated,  beforehand,  some  necessity  for  being 
myself  absent.  This  carried  me  frequently  from  home  —  lone, 
wandering,  vexing  myself  with  the  most  hideous  conjectures, 
the  most  self-torturing  apprehensions.  I  sped  away,  obviously, 


PBOGRELS  0*    PASSION.  171 

into  the  city — to  alleged  meetings  with  friends  or  clients  —  •;» 
on  some  pretence  or  other  which  seemed  ordinary  and  natural 
But  my  course  was  to  return,  and,  under  cover  of  night,  to  prowl 
around  my  own  premises,  like  some  guilty  ghost,  dcomsd  t 
haunt  the  scene  of  former  happiness,  in  its  wantonness  rendered 
a  scene  of  ever-during  misery.  Certainly,  no  guilty  ghost  ever 
suffered  in  his  penal  tortures  a  torture  worse  than  mine  at  these 
humiliating  moments.  It  was  torture  enough  to  me  that  I  was 
sensible  of  all  the  unhappy  meanness  of  my  conduct.  On  this 
head,  though  I  strove  to  excuse  myself  on  tho  score  of  a  sup- 
posed necessity,  I  could  not  deceive  myself — no  ! — not  for  the 
smallest  moment. 

Weeks  passed  in  this  manner — weeks  to  me  of  misery — of 
annoyance  and  secret  suffering  to  my  wife.  In  this  time,  my 
espionage  resulted  in  nothing  but  what  has  been  already  shown 
— in  what  was  already  sufficiently  obvious  to  me.  William 
Edgerton  continued  his  insane  attentions :  he  sought  my  dwel- 
ling with  studious  perseverance  —  sought  it  particularly  at  those 
periods  when  he  fancied  I  was  absent — when  he  knew  it — 
though  such  were  not  his  exclusive  periods  of  visitation.  He 
came  at  times  when  I  was  at  home.  His  passion  for  my  wife 
was  sufficiently  evident  to  me,  though  her  deportment  was  such 
as  to  persuade  me  that  she  did  not  see  it.  All  that  I  beheld  of 
her  conduct  was  irreproachable.  There  was  a  singular  and 
sweet  dignity  in  her  air  and  manner,  when  they  were  together, 
that  seemed  one  of  the  most  insuperable  barriers  to  any  rash  or 
presumptuous  approach.  While  there  was  no  constraint  about 
her  carriage,  there  was  no  familiarity — nothing  to  encourage 
or  invite  familiarity.  While  ehe  answered  freely,  responding 
to  all  the  needs  of  a  suggested  subject,  she  herself  never  seemed 
to  broach  one ;  and,  after  hours  of  nightly  watch,  which  ran 
through  a  period  of  weeks,  in  which  I  strove  at  the  shameful 
occupation  of  the  espial,  I  was  compelled  to  admit  that  all  her 
part  was  as  purely  unexceptionable  as  the  most  jealous  husband 
could  have  wished  it. 

But  not  so  with  the  conduct  of  William  Edgerton.  His  atten- 
tions were  increasing.  His  passion  was  assuming  some  of  the 
forms  of  that  delirium  to  which,  under  encouragement,  it  is  usu- 
ally driven  in  the  end.  He  now  passionately  watched  my  wife's 


172  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND    HEART. 

countenance,  and  no  longer  averted  his  glance  when  it  suddenly 
encountered  hers.  His  eyes,  naturally  tender  in  expression, 
now  assumed  a  look  of  irrepressible  ardency,  from  which,  I  now 
fancied — pleased  to  fancy  —  that  hers  recoiled!  He  would 
linger  long  in  silence,  silently  watching  her,  and  seemingly  un- 
conscious, the  while,  equally  of  his  scrutiny  and  his  silence.  At 
such  times,  I  could  perceive  that  Julia  would  turn  aside,  or  her 
own  eyes  would  be  marked  by  an  expression  of  the  coldest  va- 
cancy, which,  but  for  other  circumstances,  or  in  any  other  con- 
dition of  my  mind,  would  have  seemed  to  me  conclusive  of  her 
indignation  or  dislike.  But,  when  such"  became  my  thought,  it 
was  soon  expelled  by  yorne  suggestion  from  the  busy  devil  of 
my  imagination : — 

"  They  may  well  put  on  this  appearance  now ;  but  are  such 
their  looks  when  they  meet,  sometimes  for  a  whole  morning,  in 
the  painting- room  ?"  Even  here,  the  fiend  was  silenced  by  a 
fact  which  was  revealed  to  me  in  one  of  my  nocturnal  watches. 

"  Clifford  not  at  home?"  said  Edgerton  one  evening  as  he 
entered,  addressing  my  wife,  and  looking  indifferently  around 
the  room.  "  I  wished  to  tell  him  about  some  pictures  which 
are  to  be  seen  at 's  room — really  a  lovely  Guido  —  an  in- 
fant Savior  —  and  something,  said  to  be  by  Carlo  Dolce,  though 
I  doubt.  You  must  see  them.  Shall  I  call  for  you  to-morrow 
morning  1" 

"  I  thank  you,  hut  have  an  engagement  for  the  morning." 

"Well,  the  next  day.  They  will  remain  but  a  few  days 
longer  in  the  city." 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  I  shall  not  be  able  to  go  even  the  next  day, 
I  am  so  busy." 

"Busy?  ah!  that  reminds  me  to  ask  if  you  haVe  given  up 
the  pencil  altogether  ?  Have  you  wholly  abandoned  the  studio  ? 
I  never  see  you  now  at  work  in  the  morning.  I  had  no  thought 
that  you  had  so  much  of  the  fashionable  taste  for  morning  calls, 
shopping,  and  the  like." 

" Nor  have  I,"  was  the  quiet  answer.  "I  seldom  leave  home 
in  the  morning." 

"Indeed!"  with  some  doubtfulness  of  countenance,  almost 
amounting  to  chagrin — "indeed!  how  is  it  that  I  so  seldom 
see  you,  then  ?" 


PROGRESS  OF  PASSION.  173 

"  The  cares  of  a  household,  I  suppose,  might  be  my  sufficient 
excuse.  While  my  liege  lord  works  abroad>  I  find  my  duties 
sufficiently  urgent  to  task  all  my  time  at  home." 

"  Really — but  you  do  not  propose  to  abandon  the  atelier  en- 
tirely 1  Clifford  himself,  with  his  great  fondness  for  the  art, 
will  scarcely  be  satisfied  that  you  should,  even  on  a  pretence 
of  work." 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  think  that  my  husband'1  —  the  last 
two  words  certainly  emphasized — "cares  much  about  it.  I 
suspect  that  music  and  painting,  however  much  they  delighted 
and  employed  our  girlhood,  form  but  a  very  insignificant  part 
of  our  duties  and  enjoyments  when  we  get  married." 

"But  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  a  fine  landscape,  or  an 
exquisite  head,  gives  you  less  satisfaction  than  before  your  mar- 
riage ?" 

"  I  confess  they  do.  Life  is  a  very  different  thing  before  and 
after  marriage.  It  seems  far  more  serious  —  it  appears  to  me  a 
possession  now,  and  time  a  sort  of  property  which  has  to  be 
economized  and  doled  out  almost  as  cautiously  as  money.  I 
have  not  touched  a  brush  this  fortnight.  I  doubt  if  I  have 
been  in  the  painting-room  more  than  once  in  all  this  time." 

This  conversation,  which  evidently  discomfited  William  El- 
gerton,  was  productive  to  me  of  no  small  satisfaction.  After  a 
brief  interval,  consumed  in  silence,  he  resumed  it : — 

"  But  I  must  certainly  get  you  to  see  these  pictures.  Nay,  I 
must  also  —  since  you  keep  at  home — persuade  you  to  look 
into  the  studio  to-morrow,  if  it  be  only  to  flatter  my  vanity  by 
looking  at  a  sketch  which  I  have  amused  myself  upon  the  last 
three  mornings.  By-the-way,  why  may  we  not  look  at  it  to- 
night r 

"  We  shall  not  be  able  to  examine  it  carefully  by  night,"  was 
the  answer,  as  I  fancied,  spoken  with  unwonted  coldness  and 
deliberation. 

"  So  much  the  better  for  me,"  he  replied,  with  an  ineffectual 
attempt  to  laugh ;  "  you  will  be  less  able  to  discern  its  defects." 

"  The  same  difficulty  will  endanger  its  beauties,"  Julia  an- 
swered, without  offering  to  rise. 

"  Well,  at  least,  you  must  arrange  for  seeing  the  pictures  at . 
•—•«—'».  They-  are  to  remain  but  a  few  days,  and  I  would  not 


174  CONFESSION,   OH  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

have  you  miss  seeing  them  for  the  world.  Suppose  you  say 
Saturday  morning  ?" 

"  If  nothing  happens  to  prevent,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  will  en- 
deavor to  persuade  Mr.  Clifford  to  look  at  them  with  us." 

"  Oh,  he  is  so  full  of  his  law  and  clients,  that  you  will  hardly 
succeed." 

This  was  spoken  with  evident  dissatisfaction.  The  arrange- 
ment, which  included  me,  seemed  unnecessary.  I  need  not  say 
that  I  was  better  pleased  with  my  wife  than  I  had  heen  for 
some  time  previous ;  but  here  the  juggling  fiend  interposed 
again,  to  suggest  the  painful  suspicion  that  she  knew  of  my 
whereabouts,  of  my  jealousy,  of  my  espionage;  that  her  words 
were  rather  meant  for  my  ears  than  for  those  of  Edgerton ;  or, 
if  this  were  not  the  case,  her  manner  to  Edgerton  was  simply 
adopted,  as  she  had  now  become  conscious  of  her  own  feelings 
—  feelings  of  peril  —  feelings  which  would  not  permit  her  to 
trust  herself.  Ah  !  she  feared  herself :  she  had  discovered  the 
passion  of  William  Edgerton,  and  it  had  taught  her  the  char- 
acter and  tendency  of  her  own.  Was  there  ever  more  self- 
destroying  malice  than  was  mine  ?  I  settled  down  upon  this 
last  conviction.  My  wife's  coldness  was  only  assumed  to  pre- 
vent Edgerton  from  seeing  her  weakness ;  and,  for  Edgertort 
himself,  I  now  trembled  with  the  conviction  that  I  should  have 
to  shed  his  blood. 


i75 


Ot AFTER  XXIV 

JL:   GROUP. 

TH.IS  conviction  now  began  to  haunt  my  mind  with  all  the 
punctuality  of  a  shadow.  It  came  to  me  unconsciously,  uncall- 
ed for  ;  mingled  with  other  thoughts  and  disturbed  them  all. 
Whether  at  my  desk,  or  in  the  courts  ;  among  men  in  the  crowd- 
ed mart,  or  in  places  simply  where  the  idle  and  the  thoughtless 
congregate,  it  was  still  my  companion.  It  was,  however,  still 
a  shadow  only  ;  a  dull,  intangible,  half-formed  image  of  the  mind  ; 
the  crude  creature  of  a  fear  rather  than  a  desire  ;  for,  of  a  truth, 
nothing  could  be  more  really  terrible  to  me  than  the  apparent 
necessity  of  taking  the  life  of  one  so  dear  to  me  once,  and  still 
so  dear  to  the  only  friends  I  had  ever  known.  I  need  not  say 
how  silently  I  strove  to  banish  this  conviction.  My  struggles 
en  this  subject  were  precisely  those  which  are  felt  by  nervous 
men  suddenly  approaching  a  precipice,  and,  though  secure, 
flinging  themselves  off,  in  the  extremity  of  their  apprehensions 
of  that  danger  which  has  assumed  in  their  imaginations  an 
aspect  so  absorbing.  With  such  persons,  the  extreme  anxiety 
to  avoid  the  deed,  whether  of  evil  or  of  mere  danger,  frequently 
provokes  its  commission.  I  felt  that  this  risk  encountered  me. 
I  well  knew  that  an  act  often  contemplated  may  be  already  con- 
sidered half-performed  ;  and  though  I  could  not  rid  myself  of  the 
impression  that  I  was  destined  to  do  the  deed  the  very  idea  of 
which  made  me  shudder,  I  yet  determined,  with  all  the  remaining 
resolution  of  my  virtue,  to  dismiss  it  from  my  thought,  as  I  re- 
solved to  escape  from  its  performance  if  I  could. 

It  would  have  been  easy  enough  for  me  to  have  kept  this 
resolution  as  it  was  enough  for  me  to  make  it,  had  it  not  clashed 
with  a  superior  passion  in  my  mind  ;  but  that  blindness  of  heart 
under  which  I  labored,  impaired  my  judgment,  enfeebled  my 


17*  CONFESSION,    Ci>   THE   BLIND   HEART. 

resolution,  baffled  my  prudence,  defeated  all  my  faculties  of 
self-preservation.  I  was,  in  fact,  a  monomaniac.  On  one  sub- 
ject, I  was  incapable  of  thought,  of  sane  reasoning,  of  fixed 
purpose.  I  am  unwilling  to  distinguish  this  madness  by  the 
word  "jealousy."  In  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term  it  was  not 
jealousy.  Phrenologists  would  call  it  an  undue  development 
of  self-esteem,  diseased  by  frequent  provocation  into  an  irritable 
suspiciousness,  which  influenced  all  the  offices  of  thought.  It 
was  certain,  to  myself,  that  in  instituting  the  watch  which  I  did 
over  the  conduct  of  my  wife  and  William  Edgerton,  I  did  not 
erpcct  to  discover  the  commission  of  any  gross  act  which,  in  the 
vulgar  acceptation  of  the  world,  constitutes  the  crime  of  infidelity. 
The  pang  would  not  have  been  less  to  my  mind,  though  every 
such  act  was  forborne,  if  I  perceived  that  her  eyes  yearned  for 
his  coming,  and  her  looks  of  despondency  took  note  of  his  ab- 
sence. If  1  could  see  that  she  hearkened  to  his  words  with  the 
ears  of  one  who  deferred  even  to  devotedness,  and  found  that 
pleasure  in  his  accents  which  should  only  have  been  accorded  to 
mine.  It  is  the  low  nature,  alone,  which  seeks  for  develop- 
ments beyond  these,  to  constitute  the  sin  of  faithlessness.  Of 
looks,  words,  consideration,  habitual  deference,  and  eager  atten- 
tion, I  was  quite  as  uxorious  as  I  should  have  been  of  the  warm 
kiss,  or  the  yielding,  fond  embrace.  They  were  the  same  in  my 
eyes.  It  was  for  the  momentary  glance,  the  passing  word,  the 
forgetful  sigh,  that  I  looked  and  listened,  while  I  pursued  the 
unhappy  espionage  upon  my  wife  and  her  lover.  That  he  was 
her  lover,  was  sufficiently  evident — how  far  she  was  pleased 
with  his  devotion  was  the  question  to  be  asked  and  —  answered ! 

The  self-esteem  which  produced  these  developments  of  jeal- 
ousy, in  my  own  home,  was  not  unexercised  abroad.  The  same 
exacting  nature  was  busy  among  my  friends  and  mere  acquaint- 
ance. Of  these  I  had  but  few ;  to  these  I  could  be  devoted  ;  for 
these  I  could  toil ;  for  these  I  could  freely  have  perished  !  But 
I  demanded  nothing  less  from  them.  Of  their  consideration  and 
regard  I  was  equally  uxorious  as  I  was  of  the  affections  of  my 
wife.  I  was  an  intensifies  in  all  my  relations,  and  was  not  wil- 
ling to  divide  or  share  my  sympathies.  I  became  suspicious 
when  I  found  any  of  my  acquaintance  forming  new  intimacies, 
and  sunk  into  reserves  which  necessarily  produced  a  severance 


A   GROUP.  177 

of  the  old  ties  between  us.  It  naturally  followed  that  my  few 
friends  became  fewer,  and  I  finally  stood  alone.  But  enough  of 
self-analysis,  which,  in  truth,  owes  its  origin  to  the  very  same 
mental  quality  which  I  have  been  discussing — the  presence  and 
prevalence  of  egdisme.  Let  us  hurry  our  progress. 

My  wife  advised  me  of  the  visit  which  William  Edgerton  had 
proposed  to  the  picture  collection. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will." 

"  You  must  go  without  me." 

"Ah,  why  ?     Surely,  you  can  go  one  morning  ?" 

"Impossible.  The  morning  is  the  time  for  business.  That 
must  be  attended  to,  you  know." 

"  But  you  needn't  slave  yourself  at  it  because  it  is  business, 
Edward.  Bat  that  I  know  that  you  are  not  a  money-loving 
man,  I  should  suppose,  sometimes,  from  the  continual  plea  of 
business,  that  you  were  a  miser,  and  delighted  in  filling  old 
stockings  to  hide  away  in  holes  and  chinks  of  the  wall.  Come, 
now,  Saturday  is  not  usually  a  busy  day  with  you  lawyers ;  steal 
it  this  once  and  go  with  us.  I  lose  half  the  pleasure  of  the  sight 
always,  when  you  are  not  with  me,  and  when  I  know  that  you 
are  engaged  in  working  for  me  elsewhere." 

"  Ah,  you  mistake,  Julia.  You  shall  not  flatter  me  into  such  a 
faith.  You  lose  precious  little  by  my  absence." 

"  But,  Edward,!  do;  believe  me — it  is  true." 

"  Impossible !  No,  no,  Julia,  when  you  look  on  the  Carlo 
Dolce  and  the  Guido,  you  will  forget  not  only  the  toils  of  the 
husband,  but  that  you  have  one  at  all.  You  will  forget  my  harsh 
features  in  the  contemplation  of  softer  ones." 

"  Your  features  are  not  harsh  ones,  Edward." 

"Nay,  you  shall  not  persuade  me  that  I  am  not  an  Orson  — 
a  very  wild  man  of  the  woods.  I  know  I  am.  I  know  that  I 
have  harsh  features;  nay,  I  fancy  you  know  it  too,  by  this  time, 
Julia." 

"  I  admit  the  sternness  at  times,  Edward,  but  I  deny  the 
harshness.  Besides,  sternness,  you  know,  is  perfectly  compati- 
ble with  the  possession  of  the  highest  human  beauty.  I  am  not 
sure  that  a  certain  portion  of  sternness  is  not  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  manly  beauty.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  never  yet 

8* 


178  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

seen  what  I  call  a  handsome  man,  whose  features  had  not  a 
certain  sweet  gravity,  a  sort  of  melancholy  defiance,  in  them 
which  neutralized  the  effect  of  any  effeminacy  which  mere 
beauty  must  have  had ;  and  imparted  to  them  a  degree  of  char- 
acter which  compelled  you  to  turn  again  and  look,  and  made  you 
remember  them,  even  when  they  had  disappeared  from  sight. 
Now,  it  may  be  the  vanity  of  a  wife,  Edward,  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  this  is  the  very  sort  of  face  which  you  possess." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  very  vain  of  me,  I  know  —  very !" 

"  Proud,  fond — not  vain  !" 

"  You  deceive  yourself  still,  I  suspect,  even  with  your  dis- 
tinctions. But  you  must  forego  the  pleasure  of  displaying  iny 
'  stern  beauties/  as  your  particular  possession,  at  the  gallery 
You  must  content  yourself  with  others  not  so  stern,  though  per- 
haps not  less  beautiful,  and  certainly  more  amiable.  Edgerton 
will  be  your  sufficient  chaperon." 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  be  troubling  Mr.  Edgerton  so  fre- 
quently j  and,  indeed,  I  would  rather  forego  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  the  pictures  altogether,  than  trespass  in  this  way  upon 
his  attention  and  leisure." 

"  Indeed,  but  I  am  very  sure  you  do  not  trespass  upon  either. 
He  is  an  idle,  good  fellow,  relishes  anything  better  than  busi- 
ness, and  you  know  has  such  a  passion  for  painting  and  pictures 
that  its  indulgence  seems  to  justify  anything  to  his  mind.  He 
will  forget  everything  in  their  pursuit." 

All  this  was  said  with  a  studious  indifference  of  manner.  I 
was  singularly  successful  in  concealing  the  expression  of  that 
agony  which  was  gnawing  all  the  while  upon  my  heart.  I  could 
smile,  too,  while  I  was  speaking  —  while  I  was  suffering !  Look 
calmly  into  her  face  and  smile,  with  a  composure,  a  strength, 
the  very  consciousness  of  which  was  a  source  of  terrible  over- 
throw to  me  at  last.  I  was  surprised  to  perceive  an  air  of  cha- 
grin upon  Julia's  countenance,  which  was  certainly  unstudied. 
She  was  one  of  those  who  do  not  well  conceal  or  cloak  their  real 
sentiments.  The  faculty  of  doing  so  is  usually  much  more 
strongly  possessed  by  women  than  by  men  —  much  more  easily 
commanded  —  but  she  had  little  of  it.  Why  should  she  wear 
this  expression  of  disappointment  —  chagrin !  Was  she  really 
that  I  should  attend  her  ?  I  began  to  think  so — began 


A.   GROUP.  179 

to  relent,  and  think  of  promising  that  I  would  go  with  her, 
when  she  somewhat  abruptly  laid  her  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"  Edward,  you  leave  me  too  frequently.  You  stay  from  me 
too  long,  particularly  at  evening.  Do  not  forget,  dear  husband, 
how  few  female  friends  I  have;  how  few  friends  of  any  sort  — 
how  small  is  my  social  circle.  Besides,  it  is  expected  of  all 
young  people,  newly  married,  that  they  will  be  frequently  to- 
gether;  and  when  it  is  seen  that  they  are  often  separate — that 
the  wife  goes  abroad  alone,  or  goes  in  the  company  of  persons 
not  of  the  family,  it  begets  a  suspicion  that  all  is  not  well  —  that 
there  is  no  peace,  no  love,  in  the  family  so  divided.  Do  not  think, 
Edward,  that  I  mean  this  reproachfully — that  I  mean  complaint 
— that  I  apprehend  the  loss  of  your  love  :  oh  no  !  I  dread  too 
greatly  any  such  loss  to  venture  upon  its  suspicion  lightly,  but  I 
would  guard  against  the  conjectures  of  others " 

"  So,  then,  it  is  not  that  you  really  wish  my  company.  It  is  be- 
cause you  would  simply  maintain  appearances." 

"  I  would  do  both,  Edward.  God  knows  I  care  as  little  for 
mere  appearances,  so  long  as  the  substances  are  good,  as  you  do  ; 
but  I  confess  I  would  not  have  the  neighbors  speak  of  me  as  the 
neglected  wife ;  T  would  not  have  you  the  subject  of  vulgar 
reproach." 

"  To  what  does  all  this  tend  V  I  demanded  impatiently. 

"  To  nothing,  Edward,  if  by  speaking  it  I  make  you  angry*" 

"  Do  not  speak  it,  then !"  was  my  stern  reply. 

"  I  will  not ;  do  not  turn  away  —  do  not  be  angry  :"  here  she 
sobbed  once,  convulsively  ;  but  with  an  effort  of  which  I  had  not 
thought  her  capable,  she  stifled  the  painful  utterance,  and  con- 
tinued grasping  my  wrist  as  she  spoke  with  both  her  hands,  and 
speaking  in  a  whisper  — 

"  You  are  not  going  to  leave  me  in  anger.  Oh,  no  !  Do  not ! 
Kiss  me,  dear  husband,  and  forgive  me.  If  I  have  vexed  you, 
it  was  only  because  I  was  so  selfishly  anxious  to  keep  you  more 
with  me — to  be  more  certain  that  you  are  all  my  own  !" 

I  escaped  from  this  scene  with  some  difficulty.  I  should  be 
doing  my  own  heart,  blind  and  wilful  as  it  was,  a  very  gross  in- 
justice, if  I  did  not  confess  that  the  sincere  and  natural  deport- 
ment of  Julia  had  rendered  me  largely  doubtful  of  the  good 
genso  cr  the  good  feeling  of  the  course  I  was  pursuing.  But  the 


180  CONFESSION,   Oil  THE   BLIND    HEART. 

effects  of  it  were  temporary  only.  The  very  feeling,  tlius  forced 
upon  me,  that  I  was,  and  had  been,  doing  wrong,  was  a  humiliating 
one ;  arid  calculated  rather  to  sustain  my  self-esteem,  even  though 
it  lessened  the  amount  of  justification  which  my  jealousy  may 
have  supposed  itself  possessed  of.  The  disease  had  been  grow- 
ing too  long  within  my  bosom.  It  had  taken  too  deep  root — 
had  spread  its  fibres  into  a  region  too  rank  and  stimulating  not 
to  baffle  any  ordinary  diligence  on  the  part  of  the  extirpator, 
even  if  he  had  been  industrious  and  sincere.  It  had  been  grow- 
ing with  my  growth,  had  shared  my  strength  from  the  beginning, 
was  a  part  of  my  very  existence !  Still,  though  not  with  that 
hearty  fondness  which  her  feeling  demanded,  I  returned  her  ea- 
resses,  folded  her  to  my  bosom,  kissed  the  tears  from  her  cheek, 
and  half  promised  myself,  though  I  said  nothing  of  this  to  her, 
that  I  would  attend  her  to  the  picture  exhibition. 

But  I  did  not.  Half  an  hour  before  the  appointed  time  I  re- 
solved to  do  so ;  but  the  evil  spirit  grew  uppermost  in  that  brief 
interval,  and  suggested  to  me  a  course  more  in  unison  with  its 
previous  counsellings.  Under  this  mean  prompting  I  prepared 
to  go  to  the  gallery,  but  not  till  my  wife  had  already  gone  there 
under  Edgerton's  escort.  The  object  of  this  afterthought  was 
to  surprise  them  there — to  enter  at  the  unguarded  moment,  and 
read  the  language  of  their  mutual  eyes,  when  they  least  appre- 
hended such  scrutiny. 

Pitiful  as  was  this  design,  I  yet  pursued  it.  I  entered  the 
picture  room  at  a  moment  which  was  sufficiently  auspicious  for 
my  objects.  They  were  the  only  occupants  of  the  apartment. 
I  learned  this  fact  before  I  ascended  the  stairs  from  the  keeper 
of  the  gallery,  who  sat  in  a  lower  room.  The  stairs  were  carpet- 
ed. I  wore  light  thin  pumps,  which  were  noiseless.  I  may 
add,  as  a  singular  moral  contradiction,  that  I  not  only  did  not 
move  stealthily,  but  that  I  set  down  my  feet  with  greater  em- 
phasis than  was  usual  with  me,  as  if  I  sought,  in  this  way  to 
lessen  somewhat  the  meanness  of  my  proceeding.  My  approach, 
however,  was  entirely  unheard ;  and  I  stood  for  a  few  seconds 
iu  the  doorway,  gazing  upon  the  parties  without  making  them 
conscious  of  my  intrusion. 

TuUa  was  sitting,  gazing,  with  hand  lifted  above  her  eyes,  at 
9  Vurillo  —  a  ragged  Spanish  boy,  true  equally  to  the  life  and 


A  GEOUP.  181 

tt>  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  that  artist  —  dark  ground- 
work, keen,  arch  expression,  great  vivacity,  with  an  air  of 
pregnant  humor  which  speaks  of  more  than  is  shown,  and 
makes  you  fancy  that  other  pictures  are  to  follow  in  which 
the  same  boy  must  appear  in  different  phases  of  feeeling  and  of 
fortune. 

I  need  not  say  that  the  pictures,  however,  called  for  a  mo- 
mentary glance  only  from  me.  My  glances  were  following  my 
thoughts,  and  they  were  piercing  through  the  only  possible 
avenues,  the  cheeks,  the  lips,  the  tell-tale  eyes,  deep  down  into 
the  very  hearts  of  the  suspected  parties.  They  were  so  placed 
that,  standing  at  the  door,  and  half  hidden  from  sight  by  a 
screen,  I  could  see  with  tolerable  distinctness  the  true  exp- 
sion  in  each  countenance,  though  I  saw  but  half  the  face.  Ju- 
lia was  gazing  upon  the  pictures,  but  Edgerton  was  gazing  upon 
her  !  He  had  no  eyes  for  any  other  object ;  and  I  fancied,  from 
the  abstracted  and  almost  vacant  expression  of  his  looks,  that  I 
without  startling  him  from  his  dream.  In  his  features,  speak- 
ing, even  in  their  obliviousness  of  all  without,  was  one  sole, 
absorbing  sentiment  of  devotion.  His  eyes  were  riveted  with 
a  strenuous  sort  of  gaze  upon  her,  and  her  only.  He  stood 
partly  on  one  side,  but  still  behind  her,  so  that,  without  chang- 
ing her  position,  she  could  scarcely  have  beheld  his  counte- 
nance. I  looked  in  vain,  in  the  brief  space  of  time  which  I 
employed  in  surveying  them,  but  she  never  once  turned  her 
head ;  nor  did  he  once  withdraw  his  glance  from  her  neck  and 
cheek,  a  part  only  of  which  could  have  been  visible  to  him 
where  he  stood.  Her  features,  meanwhile,  were  subdued  and 
placid.  There  was  nothing  which  could  make  me  dissatisfied 
with  her,  had  I  not  been  predisposed  to  this  dissatisfaction  ;  and 
when  the  tones  of  my  voice  were  heard,  she  started  up  to  meet 
me  with  a  sudden  flash  of  pleasure  in  her  eyes  which  illumi- 
nated her  whole  countenance. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  come,  then.     I  am  so  glad!" 

She  little  knew  why  I  had  come.  I  blushed  involuntarily 
with  the  conviction  of  the  base  motive  which  had  brought  mo. 
he  immediately  grasped  my  arm,  drew  me  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  those  pictures  which  had  more  particularly  pleased  her- 


182 

self,  absolutely  seeming  to  forget  that  there  was  a  third  person 
in  the  room.  William  Edgerton  turned  away  and  busied  him- 
self, for  the  first  time  no  doubt,  in  the  examination  of  a  land- 
scape on  the  opposite  wall.  I  followed  his  movement  with 
my  glance  for  a  single  instant,  but  his  face  was  studiously 
averted. 


THE  OLD   GOO^E   FINDS  A   YOUNG   GANDER.  183 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

THE    OLD    GOOSE    FINDS    A    YOUNG    GANDER. 

WE  will  suppose  some  months  to  Lave  elapsed  in  this  man- 
ner— months,  to  me,  of  prolonged  torture  and  suspicion.  Cir- 
cumstances, like  petty  billows  of  the  sea,  kept  chafing  upon  the 
low  places  of  my  heart,  keeping  alive  the  feverish  irritation 
which  had  already  done  so  much  toward  destroying  my  peace, 
and  overthrowing  the  guardian  outposts  of  my  pride  and  honor. 
How  long  the  strife  was  to  be  continued  before  the  ocean-tor- 
rents should  be  let  in — before  the  wild  passions  should  quite 
overwhelm  my  reason  —  was  a  subject  of  doubt,  but  not  the  less 
a  subject  of  present  and  of  exceeding  fear.  In  these  matters, 
I  need  not  say  that  there  was  substantially  very  little  change 
in  the  character  of  events  that  marked  the  progress  of  my  do- 
mestic life.  William  Edgerton  still  continued  the  course  which 
he  had  so  unwittingly  begun.  He  still  sought  every  opportu- 
nity to  see  my  wife,  and,  if  possible,  to  see  her  alone.  He 
avoided  me  as  much  as  possible ;  seldom  came  to  the  office ; 
absolutely  gave  up  his  business  altogether ;  and,  when  we  met, 
though  his  words  and  manner  were  solicitously  kind,  there  was 
a  close  restraint  upon  the  latter,  a  hesitancy  about  the  former, 
a  timid  apprehensiveness  in  his  eye,  and  a  generally-shown 
reluctance  to  approach  me,  which  I  could  not  but  see,  and  could 
not  but  perceive,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  endeavored  with 
ineffectual  effort  to  conceal.  He  was  evidently  conscious  that 
he  was  doing  wrong.  It  was  equally  clear  to  me  that  he  lacked 
the  manly  courage  to  do  right.  What  was  all  this  to  end  in] 
The  question  became  momently  more  and  more  serious.  Sup- 
pose that  he  possessed  no  sort  of  influence  over  my  wife  ?  Even 
suppose  his  advances  to  stop  where  they  were  at  present  —  his 
course  already,  so  far,  was  a  humiliating  indignity,  allowing 


184  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND    HEART. 

that  it  became  perceptible  to  the  eyes  of  others.  That  revela 
tion  once  made,  there  could  be  no  more  proper  forbearance  on 
the  part  of  the  husband.  The  customs  of  our  society,  the  tone 
of  public  opinion  —  nay,  outraged  humanity  itself — demanded 
then  the  interposition  of  the  avenger.  And  that  revelation  was 
at  hand. 

Meanwhile,  the  keenest  eyes  of  suspicion  could  behold  noth- 
ing in  the  conduct  of  Julia  which  was  not  entirely  unexception- 
able. If  William  Edgerton  was  still  persevering  in  his  pursuit, 
Julia  seemed  insensible  to  his  endeavors.  Of  course,  they  met 
frequently  when  it  was  not  in  my  power  to  see  them.  It  was 
my  error  to  suppose  that  they  met  more  frequently  still  —  that 
he  saw  her  invariably  in  his  morning  visits  to  the  studio,  which 
was  not  often  the  case — and,  when  they  did  meet,  that  she  de- 
rived quite  as  much  satisfaction  from  the  interview  as  himself. 
Of  their  meetings,  except  at  night,  when  I  was  engaged  in  my 
miserable  watch  upon  them,  I  could  say  nothing.  Failing  to 
note  anything  evil  at  such  periods,  my  jealous  imagination 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  this  was  because  my  espionage 
was  suspected,  and  that  their  interviews  at  other  periods  were 
distinguished  by  less  prudence  and  reserve.  And  yet,  could  I 
have  reasoned  rightly  at  this  period,  I  must  have  seen  that,  if 
such  were  the  case,  there  would  have  been  no  such  display  of 
empressement  as  William  Edgerton  made  at  these  evening  visits. 
Did  he  expend  his  ardor  in  the  day,  did  he  apprehend  my  scru- 
tiny at  night,  he  would  surely  have  suppressed  the  eagerness 
of  his  glance — the  profound,  all -forgetting  adoration  which 
marked  his  whole  air,  gaze,  and  manner.  Nor  should  I  have 
been  so  wretchedly  blind  to  what  was  the  obvious  feeling  of 
discontent  and  disquiet  in  her  bosom.  Never  did  evenings 
seem  to  pass  with  more  downright  dullness  to  any  one  party  in 
the  world.  If  Edgerton  spoke  to  her,  which  he  did  not  fre- 
quently, his  address  was  marked  by  a  trepidation  and  hesitancy 
akin  to  fear  —  a  manner  which  certainly  indicated  Anything  but 
a  foregone  conclusion  between  them ;  while  her  answers,  on  the 
other  hand,  were  singularly  cold,  merely  replying,  and  calcu- 
lated invariably  to  discourage  everything  like  a  protracted  con- 
versation. What  was  said  by  Edgerton  was  sufficiently  harm- 
less— nor  harmless  merely.  It  was  most  commonly  mere 


THE   OLD   GOOSE   FINDS   A    YOUNG   GANDER.  185 

ordinary  commonplace,  the  feeble  effort  of  one  who  feels  the 
necessity  of  speech,  yet  dares  not  speak  the  voluminous  pas- 
sions which  alone  could  furnish  him  with  energetic  and  manly 
utterance.  Had  the  scales  not  been  abundantly  thick  and  cal- 
lous above  my  eyes,  how  easily  might  these  clandestine  scruti- 
nies have  brought  me  back  equally  to  happiness  and  my  senses  ! 
But  though  I  thus  beheld  the  parties,  and  saw  the  truth  as  I 
now  relate  it,  there  was  always  then  some  little  trifling  circum- 
stance that  would  rise  up,  congenial  to  suspicion,  and  cloud  my 
conclusions,  and  throw  me  back  upon  old  doubts  and  cruel  jeal- 
ousies. Edgerton's  tone  may,  at  moments,  have  been  more  fal- 
tering and  more  tender  than  usual;  Julia's  glance  might  some- 
times encounter  his,  and  then  they  both  might  seem  to  fall,  in 
mutual  confusion,  to  the  ground.  Perhaps  she  sung  some  little 
ditty  at  his  instance  —  some  ditty  that  she  had  often  sung  for 
me.  Nay,  at  his  departure,  she  might  have  attended  him  to  the 
entrance,  and  he  may  have  taken  her  hand  and  retained  his 
grasp  upon  it  rather  longer  than  was  absolutely  necessary  for 
his  farewell.  How  was  I  to  know  the  degree  of  pressure  which 
he  gave  to  the  hand  within  his  own  1  That  single  grasp,  not 
unfrequently,  undid  all  the  better  impressions  of  a  whole  even- 
ing consumed  in  these  unworthy  scrutinies.  I  will  not  seek 
further  to  account  for  or  to  defend  this  unhappy  weakness. 
Has  not  the  great  poet  of  humanity  said  — 

"  Trifles,  light  as  air, 
Are,  to  the  jealous,  confirmations  strong 
As  proofs  of  Holy  Writ"  ? 

Medical  men  tell  us  of  a  predisposing  condition  of  the  system 
for  the  inception  of  epidemic.  It  needs,  after  this,  but  the 
smallest  atmospheric  changes,  and  the  contagion  spreads,  and 
blackens,  and  taints  the  entire  body  of  society,  even  unto  death. 
The  history  of  the  moral  constitution  is  not  unanalogous  to  this. 
The  disease,  the  damning  doubt,  once  in  the  mind,  and  the  rest 
is  easy.  It  may  sleep  and  be  silent  for  a  season,  for  years,  un- 
provoked by  stimulating  circumstances  ;  but  let  the  moral  atmo 
sphere  once  receive  its  color  from  the  suddenly-passing  cloud, 
and  the  dark  spot  dilates  within  the  heart,  grows  active,  and 
rapidly  sends  its  poisonous  and  poisoning  tendrils  through  all 


186  CONFESSION,   OR   THE   BLIND    HEART. 

the  avenues  of  mind.  Its  bitter  secretions  in  my  soul  affected 
all  the  objects  of  my  sight,  even  as  the  jaundiced  man  lives 
only  in  a  saffron  element.  Perhaps  no  course  of  conduct  on  the 
part  of  my  wife  could  have  seemed  to  me  entirely  innocent. 
Certainly  none  could  have  been  entirely  satisfactory,  or  have 
seemed  entirely  proper.  Even  her  words,  when  she  spoke  to 
me  alone,  were  of  a  kind  to  feed  my  prevailing  passion.  Yet. 
regarded  under  just  moods,  they  should  have  been  the  most  con- 
clusive, not  simply  of  her  innocence,  but  of  the  devotedness  of 
her  heart  to  the  requisitions  of  her  duty.  Her  love  and  her 
sense  of  right  seemed  harmoniously  to  keep  together.  Gentlest 
reproaches  chided  me  for  leaving  her,  when  she  sought  for  none 
but  myself.  Sweetest  endearments  encountered  my  return,  and 
fondest  entreaties  would  have  delayed  the  hour  of  my  depart 
ure.  Her  earnestness,  when  she  implored  me  not  to  leave  her 
so  frequently  at  night,  almost  reached  intensity,  and  had  a 
meaning,  equally  expressive  of  her  delicacy  and  apprehensions, 
which  I  was  unhappily  too  slow  to  understand. 

Six  months  had  probably  elapsed  from  the  time  of  Mr.  Clif 
ford's  death,  when,  returning  from  my  office  one  day,  who  should 
I  encounter  in  my  wife's  company  but  her  mother  ?  Of  this 
good  lady  I  had  been  permitted  to  see  but  precious  little  since 
my  marriage.  Not  that  she  had  kept  aloof  from  our  dwelling 
entirely.  Julia  had  always  conceived  it  a  duty  to  seek  her 
mother  at  frequent  periods  without  regarding  the  ill  treament 
which  she  received ;  and  the  latter,  becoming  gradually  recon- 
ciled to  what  she  could  no  longer  prevent,  had  at  length  so  far 
put  on  the  garments  of  Christian  charity  as  to  make  a  visit  to 
her  daughter  in  return.  Of  course,  though  I  did  not  encourage 
it,  I  objected  nothing  to  this  renewed  intercourse ;  which  con- 
tinued to  increase  until,  as  in  the  present  instance,  I  sometimes 
encountered  this  good  lady  on  my  return  from  my  office.  On 
these  occasions  1  treated  her  with  becoming  respect,  though 
without  familiarity.  I  inquired  after  her  health,  expressed  my- 
self pleased  to  see  her,  and  joined  my  wife  in  requesting  her  to 
stay  to  dinner.  Until  now,  she  usually  declined  to  do  so ;  and 
her  manner  to  myself  hitherto  was  that  of  a  spoiled  child  in- 
dulging in  his  sulks.  But,  this  day,  to  my  great  consternation* 
she  was  all  smiles  and  good  humor, 


THE  OLD  GOOSE  FINDS  A   YOUNG  GANDER.  187 

A  change  so  sudden  portended  danger.  I  looked  to  my  wife, 
whose  grave  countenance  afforded  me  no  explanation.  I  looked 
to  the  lady  herself,  my  own  countenance  no  doubt  sufficiently 
expressive  of  the  wonder  which  I  felt,  hut  there  was  little  to  be 
read  in  that  quarter  which  could  give  me  any  clue  to  the  mys- 
tery. Yet  she  chattered  like  a  magpie ;  her  conversation  run- 
ning on  certain  styles  of  dress,  various  purchases  of  silks,  and 
satins,  and  other  stuffs,  which  she  had  been  buying — a  budget 
of  which,  I  afterward  discovered,  she  had  brought  with  her,  in 
order  to  display  to  her  daughter.  Then  she  spoke  of  her  teeth, 
newly  filed  and  plugged,  and  grinned  with  frequent  effort,  that 
their  improved  condition  might  be  made  apparent.  Her  chat- 
ter was  peculiarly  that  of  a  flippant  and  conceited  girl-child  of 
sixteen,  whose  head  has  been  turned  by  premature  bringing  out, 
and  the  tuition  of  some  vain,  silly,  wriggling  mother.  I  could 
see,  by  my  wife's  looks,  that  there  was  a  cause  for  all  this,  and 
waited,  with  considerable  apprehension,  for  the  moment  when 
we  should  be  alone,  in  order  to  receive  from  her  an  explanation. 
But  little  of  Mrs.  Clifford's  conversation  was  addressed  to  me, 
though  that  little  was  evidently  meant  to  be  particularly  civil. 
But,  a  little  before  she  took  her  departure,  which  was  soon  after 
dinner,  she  asked  me  with  some  abruptness,  though  with  a  con- 
siderable smirk  of  meaning  in  her  face,  if  I  "  knew  a  Mr.  Pat- 
rick Delaney."  I  frankly  admitted  that  I  had  not  this  pleas- 
ure ;  and  with  a  still  more  significant  smirk,  ending  in  a  very 
affected  simper,  meant  to  be  very  pleasant,  she  informed  me,  as 
she  took  her  leave,  that  Julia  would  make  me  wiser.  I  looked 
to  Julia  when  she  was  gone,  and,  with  some  chagrin,  and  with 
few  words,  she  unravelled  the  difficulty.  Her  mother — the  old 
fool — was  about  to  be  married,  and  to  a  Mr.  Patrick  Delaney, 
an  Irish  gentleman,  fresh  from  the  green  island,  who  had  only 
been  some  eighteen  months  in  America. 

"  You  seem  annoyed  by  this  affair,  Julia ;  but  how  does  it 
affect  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  such  a  match  can  not  turn  out  well.  This  Mr.  Delaney 
is  a  young  man,  only  twenty-five,  and  what  can  he  see  in  mother 
to  induce  him  to  marry  her  ?  It  can  only  be  for  the  little  pit- 
tance of  property  which  she  possesses." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders  while  replying;—- 


188  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

"  There  must  be  some  consideration  in  every  marriage-con- 
tract." 

'  "  Ah !  but,  Edward,  what  sort  of  a  man  can  it  be  to  whom 
money  is  the  consideration  for  marrying  a  woman  old  enough 
to  be  his  mother  ?" 

"  And  so  little  money,  too.  But,  Julia,  perhaps'  he  marries 
her  as  a  mother.  He  is  a  modest  youth,  who  knows  his  juve- 
nility, and  seeks  becoming  guardianship.  But  the  thing  does 
not  concern  us  at  all." 

"  She  is  my  mother,  Edward." 

"  True  ;  but  still  I  do  not  see  that  the  matter  should  concern 
us.  You  do  not  apprehend  that  Mr.  Patrick  Delaney  will  seek 
to  exercise  the  authority  of  a  father  over  either  of  us  1" 

11  No  !  but  I  fear  she  will  repent." 

"Why  should  that  be  a  subject  of  fear  which  should  be  a 
subject  of  gratulation  ?  For  my  part,  I  hope  she  may  repent. 
We  are  told  she  can  not  be  saved  else." 

Julia  was  silent.     I  continued  : — 

"  But  what  brings  her  here,  and  makes  her  so  suddenly  affa- 
ble with  me  ?  That  is  certainly  a  matter  which  looks  threat- 
ening. Does  ghe  explain  this  to  you,  Julia  ?" 

"  Not  otherwise  than  by  declaring  she  is  sorry  for  former  dif- 
ferences." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  but  her  sorrow  comes  too  late,  and  I  very  much 
suspect  has  some  motive.  What  more  1  the  shaft  is  not  yet 
shot." 

"  You  guess  rightly  ;  she  invites  us  to  the  wedding,  and  in- 
sists that  we  must  come,  as  a  proof  that  we  harbor  no.  malice." 

"  Is  that  all  ?" 

"  All,  I  believe." 

"  She  is  more  considerate  than  I  expected.  Well,  you  prom- 
ised her  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  told  her  I  could  say  nothing  without  consulting  you." 

"  And  would  you  wish  to  go,  Julia  ?" 

"  Oh,  surely,  dear  husband." 

".We  will  both  go,  then." 

A  week  afterward  the  affair  took  place,  and  we  were  among 
the  spectators. 


THE  HEABT-FIEND'S  ECHO.  189 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THK    HEART-FIEND    FINDS  AN    ECHO  FROM  THE    FIEND  WITHOUT. 

AND  a  spectacle  it  was  !  Mrs.  Clifford,  about  to  become  Mrs, 
Delaney,  was  determined  that  the  change  in  her  situation  should 
be  distinguished  by  becoming  eclat.  Always  a  silly  woman, 
fond  of  extravagance  and  show,  she  prepared  to  celebrate  an 
occasion  of  the  greatest  folly  in  a  style  of  greater  extravagance 
than  ever.  She  accordingly  collected  as  many  of  her  former 
numerous  acquaintances  as  were  still  willing  to  appear  within 
a  circle  in  which  wealth  was  no  longer  to  be  found.  Her  house 
was  small,  but,  as  has  been  elsewhere  stated  in  this  narrative, 
she  had  made  it  smaller  by  stuffing  it  with  the  massive  and 
costly  furniture  which  had  been  less  out  of  place  in  her  former 
splendid  mansion,  and  had  there  much  better  accorded  with  her 
fortunes.  She  now  still  further  stuffed  it  with  her  guests.  Of 
course,  many  of  those  present,  came  only  to  make  merry  at 
her  expense.  Her  husband  was  almost  entirely  unknown  to 
any  of  them ;  and  it  was  enough  to  settle  his  pretensions  in 
every  mind,  that,  in  the  vigor  of  his  youth,  a  really  fine-looking, 
we-11-made  person  of  twenty-five,  he  was  about  to  connect  him- 
self, in  marriage,  with  a  haggard  old  woman  of  fifty,  whose 
personal  charms,  never  very  great,  were  nearly  all  gone ;  and 
whose  mind  and  manners,  the  grace  of  youth  being  no  more, 
were  so  very  deficient  in  all  those  qualities  which  might  com- 
mend one  to  a  husband.  So  far  as  externals  went,  Mr.  Delaney 
was  a  very  proper  man.  He  behaved  with  sufficient  decorum, 
and  unexpected  modesty ;  and  went  through  the  ordeal  as  com- 
posedly as  if  the  occurrence  had  been  frequently  before  familiar; 
as  indeed  w«,  C+sZL  d:??*"*"1* ;«  the  sequel,  was  certainly  the  case. 
But  this  does  not  concern  us  u^^ 


190  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND   112 ART. 

Three  rooms  were  thrown  open  to  the  company.  We  had 
refreshments  in  abundance  and  great  variety,  and  at  a  certain 
hour,  we  were  astounded  by  the  clamor  of  tamborine  and  fiddle 
giving  due  notice  to  the  dancers.  Among  my  few  social  ac- 
complishments, this  of  dancing  had  never  been  included.  Nat- 
urally, I  should,  perhaps,  be  considered  an  awkward  man.  I 
was  conscious  of  this  awkwardness  at  all  times  when  not  ex- 
cited by  action  or  some  earnest  motive.  I  was  incapable  of 
that  graceful  loitering,  that  flexibleness  of  mind  and  body, 
which  excludes  the  idea  of  intensity,  of  every  sort,  and  which 
constitutes  one  of  the  great  essentials  for  success  in  a  ball-room. 
It  was  in  this  very  respect  that  my  friend,  William  Edgerton, 
may  be  said  to  have  excelled  most  young  men  of  our  acquain- 
tance. He  was  what,  in  common  speech,  is  called  an  accom- 
plished man.  Of  very  graceful  person,  without  much  earnest- 
ness of  character,  he  had  acquired  a  certain  fastidiousness  of 
taste  on  the  subjects  of  costume  and  manners,  which,  without 
Brummollizing,  he  yet  carried  to  an  extent  which  betrayed  a 
considerable  degree  of  mental  feebleness.  This  somewhat  as- 
similated him  to  the  fashionable  dandy.  He  walked  with  an 
air  equally  graceful,  noble,  and  unaffected.  He  was  never  on 
stilts,  yet  he  was  always  en  regie.  He  had  as  little  mauvais 
hontc  as  mauvais  ton.  In  short,  whatever  might  have  been  his 
deficiencies,  he  was  confessedly  a  very  neat  specimen  of  the  fine 
gentleman  in  its  most  commendable  social  sense. 

William  Edgerton  was  among  the  guests  of  Mrs.  Clifford. 
There  had  been  no  previous  intimacy  between  the  Edgerton 
and  Clifford  families,  yet  he  had  been  specially  invited.  Mrs. 
C.  could  have  had  but  a  single  motive  for  inviting  him  —  so  I 
thought  —  that  of  making  her  evening  a  jam.  She  had  just 
that  ambition  of  the  lady  of  small  fashion,  who  regards  the 
number  rather  than  the  quality  of  her  guests,  and  would  puefer 
a  saloon  full  of  Esquimaux  or  Kanzas,  and  would  partake  of 
their  sea-blubber,  rather  than  lose  the  triumph  of  making  more 
noise  than  her  rival  neighbors,  the  Sprigginses  or  Wigginses. 

William  Edgerton  did  not  seek  me ;  but,  when  I  left  the  side 
of  my  wife  to  pay  my  respects  to  some  ladies  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  room,  he  approached  her.  A  keen  pang  that  ren- 
dered me  unconscious  of  everything  I  was  saying — nay,  even 


THE  BEAUT-FIEND'S  ECHO.  191 

of  the  persons  to  whom  I  was  addressing  myself — shot  through 
my  heart,  as  I  beheld  him  crossing  the  floor  to  the  place  that  I 
had  left.  Involuntarily,  the  gracefulness  of  his  person  and 
carriage  provoked  in  my  mind  a  contrast  most  unfavorable  to 
me,  between  him  and  myself.  It  was  no  satisfaction  to  me  at 
that  time  to  reflect  that  I  was  less  graceful  only  because  I  was 
more  earnest,  more  sincere.  This  is  usually  the  case,  and  is 
reasonably  accounted  for.  Intensity  and  great  earnestness  of 
character,  are  wholly  inconsistent  with  a  nice  attention  to  forms, 
carriage,  demeanor.  But  what  does  a  lady  care  for  such  distinc- 
tion? Does  she  even  suspect  hi  Not  often.  If  she  could 
only  fancy  for  a  moment  that  the  well-made  but  awkward  man 
who  traverses  the  room  before  her,  carried  in  his  breast  a  soul 
of  such  ardency  and  volume  that  it  subjected  his  very  motion 
arbitrarily  to  its  own  excitements,  its  own  convulsions ;  that 
the  very  awkwardness  which  offended  her  was  the  result  of 
the  most  deep  and  passionate  feelings — feelings  which,  like  the 
buried  flame  in  the  mountain,  are  continually  boiling  up  for 
utterance — convulsing  the  prison-house  which  retained  them  — 
shaking  the  solid  earth  with  their  pent  throes,  that  will  not  al- 
ways be  pent !  Ah  !  these  things  do  not  move  ladies'  fancies. 
There  are  very  few  endowed  with  that  thoughtful  pride  which 
disdains  surfaces.  Julia  Clifford  was  one  of  these  few  !  But 
I  little  knew  it  then. 

The  approach  of  William  Edgerton  to  my  wife  was  a  signal 
for  my  torture  all  that  evening.  From  that  moment  my  mind 
was  wandering.  I  knew  little  what  I  said,  or  looked,  or  did. 
My  chat  with  those  around  me  became,  on  a  sudden,  bald  and 
disjointed;  and  when  I  beheld  the  pair,  both  nobly  formed — 
he  tall,  graceful,  manly — she,  beautiful  and  bending  as  a  lily 
—  a  purity  beaming,  amid  all  their  brightness,  front  her  eyes  — 
a  piirity  which,  I  had  taught  myself  to  believe,  was  no  longer 
in  her  heart — when  I  beheld  them  advance  into  the  floor,  con- 
spicuous over  all  the  rest,  in  most  eyes,  as  they  certainly  were 
in  mine — I  can  not  describe — you  may  conjecture — the  cold, 
fainting  sickness  which  overcame  my  soul.  I  could  have  lain 
myself  down  upon  the  lone,  midnight  rocks,  and  surrendered 
myself  to  solitude  and  storm  for  ever. 

They  entered  the  stately  measures  of  the  Spanish  dance 


192  CONtfKSKION,  OR  THE   BLIND    HEAftT. 

But  the  grace  of  movement  which  won  the  murmuring  applausd 
of  all  around  me,  only  increased  the  agony  of  my  afflictions. 
I  saw  their  linked  arms — the  compliant,  willing  movements  of 
their  mutual  forms  —  and  dark  were  the  images  of  guilt  and 
hateful  suspicion  which  entered  my  brain  and  grew  to  vivid 
forms,  in  action  before  me.  I  fancied  the  fierce,  passionate 
yearnings  in  the  heart  of  Edgerton ;  I  trembled  when  I  con- 
jectured what  fancies  filled  the  heart  of  Julia.  I  can  not  linger 
over  the  torturing  influence  of  those  moments  —  moments  which 
seemed  ages  !  Enough  that  I  was  maddened  with  the  delirium, 
now  almost  as  its  height,  which  had  been  for  months  preying 
upon  my  brain  like  some  corroding  serpent. 

The  dance  closed.  Edgerton  conducted  her  to  a  seat  and 
placed  himself  beside  her.  I  kept  aloof.  I  watched  them  from 
a  distance ;  and  in  sustaining  this  watch,  I  was  compelled  to 
recall  my  senses  with  a  stern  degree  of  resolution  which  should 
save  my  feelings  from  the  detection  of  those  inquisitive  glances 
which  I  fancied  were  all  around  me.  If  I  was  weakest  among 
men,  in  the  disease  which  destroyed  my  peace,  Heaven  knows 
I  was  among  the  strongest  of  men  in  concealing  its  expression 
at  the  very  moment  when  every  pulsation  of  my  heart  was  an 
especial  agony.  I  affected  indifference,  threw  myself  into  the 
midst  of  a  group  of  such  people  as  talk  of  their  neighbor's 
bonnets  or  breeches,  the  rise  of  stocks,  or  the  fall  of  rain ;  and 
how  Mrs.  Jenkins  has  set  up  her  carriage,  and  Mr.  Higgins 
has  been  compelled  to  set  down,  and  to  sell  out  his.  Interest- 
ing details,  perhaps,  without  which  the  nine  in  ten  might  at» 
well  be  tongueless  or  tongue-tied  for  ever.  This  stuff  I  had  tc 
hear,  and  requite  in  like  currency,  while  my  brain  was  boiling, 
and  dim,  but  terrible  images  of  strife,  and  storm,  and  agony, 
were  rushing  through  it  with  howling  and  hisses.  There  I  sat, 
thus  seemingly  engaged,  but  with  an  eye  ever  glancing  covert- 
ly to  the  two,  who,  at  that  moment,  absorbed  every  thought  of 
my  mind,  every  feeling  of  my  heart,  and  filled  them  both  with 
the  bitterest  commotion.  The  glances  of  their  mutual  eyes, 
the  expression  of  lip  and  cheek,  I  watched  with  the  keenest 
analysis  of  suspicion.  In  Julia,  I  saw  sweetness  mixed  with  a 
delicate  reserve.  She  seemed  to  speak  but  little.  Her  eyes 
wandered  from  her  companion — frequently  to  where  I  pat  — 


HEART TIEND'S  ECHO.  193 

but  I  gave  myself  due  credit,  at  sucli  moments,  for  the  ability 
with  which  I  conducted  my  own  espionage.  My  inference— 
equally  unjust  and  unnatural — that  her  timid  glances  to  my- 
self denoted  in  her  bosom  a  consciousness  of  wrong  —  seemed 
to  me  the  most  natural  and  inevitable  inference.  And  when  I 
noted  the  ardency  of  Edgerton's  gaze,  his  close,  unrelaxing  at- 
tentions, the  seeming  forgetfulness  of  all  around  which  he 
manifested,  I  hurried  to  the  conclusion  that  his  words  were  of 
a  character  to  suit  his  looks,  and  betray  in  more  emphatic  ut- 
terance, the  passion  which  they  also  betrayed. 

The  signal,  after  a  short  re.spite,  devoted  to  fruits,  ices,  &c^ 
was  made  for  the  dancers,  and  William  Edgerton  rose.  I  noted 
his  bow  to  my  wife,  saw  that  he  spoke,  and  necessarily  con- 
cluded, that  he  again  solicited  her  to  dance.  Her  lips  moved 
— she  bowed  slightly  —  and  he  again  took  his  seat  beside  her. 
I  inferred  from  this  that  she  declined  to  dance  a  second  time. 
She  was  certainly  more  prudent  than  himself.  I  assigned  to 
prudence — to  policy — on  her  part,  what  might  well  have  been 
placed  to  a  nobler  motive.  I  went  further. 

"  She  will  not  dance  with  him,"  said  the  busy  fiend  at  nw 
shoulder,  "  for  the  very  reason  that  she  prefers  a  quiet  seat  be- 
side him.  In  the  dance  they  mingle  with  others ;  they  can  not 
speak  with  so  much  ease  and  safety.  Now  she  has  him  all  to 
herself." 

I  dashed  away,  forgetful,  gloomily,  from  the  knot  by  which 
I  had  been  encompassed.  I  passed  into  the  adjoining  room, 
which  was  connected  by  folding  doors,  with  that  I  left.  The 
crowd  necessarily  grouped  itself  around  the  dancers,  and  .<".  *  x*t 
a  window-jamb,  I  stood  absolutely  forgetting  where  I  Wa,. 
alone  among  the  many  —  with  my  eye  stretching  over  the 
heads  of  the  flying  masses,  to  the  remote  spot  where  my  wife 
still  sat  with  Edgerton.  I  was  aroused  from  my  hateful  dream 
by  a  slight  touch  upon  my  arm.  I  started  with  a  painful  sense 
of  my  own  weakness — with  a  natural  dread  that  the  secret 
misery  under  which  I  labored  was  no  longer  a  secret.  I  writhed 
under  the  conviction  that  the  cold,  the  sneering,  and  the  worth 
less,  were  making  merry  with  my  afflictions.  I  met  the  gaac? 
of  the  bride  —  the  mistress  of  ceremonies — my  wife's  mother 
Mrs.  Delaney,  late  OHIToH.  I  shuddered  as  I  beheld  her 

9 


194  CONFESSION,  OS  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

glance.  I  could  not  mistake  the  volume  of  meaning  in  hei 
smile  —  that  wretched  smile  of  her  thin,  withered  lips,  brimful 
of  malignant  cunning,  which  said  emphatically  as  such  smile 
coald  say : — 

"  I  see  you  on  the  rack ;  I  know  that  you  are  writhing;  and 
I  enjoy  your  tortures." 

I  started,  as  if  to  leave  her,  with  a  look  of  fell  defiance,  roused, 
ready  to  burst  forth  into  utterance,  upon  my  own  face.  But  she 
gently  detained  my  arm. 

"  You  are  troubled." 

"No." 

"  Ah  !  but  you  are.     Stop  awhile.     You  will  feel  better." 

"  Thank  you ;  but  I  feel  very  well." 

"  No,  no,  you  do  not.  You  can  not  deceive  me.  I  know 
where  the  shoe  pinches ;  but  what  did  you  expect  ?  Were  you 
simple  enough  to  imagine  that  a  woman  would  be  true  to  her 
husband,  who  was  false  to  her  own  mother?" 

"  Fiend  !"  I  muttered  in  her  ear. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  was  the  unmeasured  response  of  the  bel 
da,me,  loud  enough  for  the  whole  house  to  hear.  I  darted  from 
her  grasp,  which  would  have  detained  me  still,  made  my  way 
—  how  I  know  not  —  out  of  the  house,  and  found  myself  almost 
gasping  for  breath,  in  the  open  air  of  the  street. 

She,  at  least,  had  been  sagacious  enough  to  find  out  my  secret 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

KINGSLEY. 

THE  fiendish  suggestion  of  the  mother,  against  the  purity  of 
her  own  child,  almost  divested  me,  for  the  moment,  of  my  own 
rancor — almost  deprived  me  of  my  suspicions!  Could  any- 
thing have  been  more  thoroughly  horrible  and  atrocious !  It 
certainly  betrayed  how  deep  was  the  malignant  hatred  which 
she  had  ever  borne  to  myself,  and  of  which  her  daughter  was 
now  required  to  bear  a  portion.  What  a  volume  of  human 
depravity  was  opened  on  my  sight,  by  that  single  utterance  of 
this  wretched  mother.  Guilt  and  sin  !  ye  are,  indeed,  the  mas- 
ters everywhere  !  How  universal  is  your  dominion  !  How  ye 
rage — how  ye  riot  among  souls,  and  minds,  and  fancies — never 
utterly  overthrown  anywhere — busy  always — everywhere  — 
sovereign  in  how  many  hapless  regions  of  the  heart !  Who  is 
pure  among  men  ?  Who  can  be  sure  of  himself  for  a  day  — 
an  hour  ?  Precious  few !  None,  certainly,  who  do  not  distrust 
their  own  strength  with  a  humility  only  to  be  won  from  prayer 
— prayer  coupled  with  moderate  desires,  and  the  presence  of  a 
constant  thought,  which  teaches  that  time  is  a  mere  agent  of 
eternity,  and  he  who  works  for  the  one  only,  will  not  even  be 
secure  of  peace  during  the  period  for  which  he  works.  Truly, 
he  who  lives  not  for  the  future  is  the  very  last  who  may  reason- 
ably hope  to  enjoy  the  blessings  of  the  present. 

But  this  was  not  the  season,  nor  was  mine  the  mood,  for 
moral  reflections  of  any  sort.  My  secret  was  known !  That 
was  everything.  When  the  conduct  of  William  Edgertcn  had 
become  such,  as  to  awaken  the  notice  of  third  persons,  T  was 


196  CONFESSION,   OK  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

justified  in  exacting  from  him  the  heavy  responsibility  he  had 
incurred.  The  vague,  indistinct  conviction  had  long  floated  be- 
fore my  mind,  that  I  would  be  required  to  take  his  life.  The 
period  which  was  to  render  this  task  necessary,  was  that  which 
had  now  arrived — when  it  had  been  seen  by  others — not  inter- 
ested like  myself — that  he  had  passed  the  bounds  of  propriety. 
Of  course,  I  was  arguing  in  a  circle,  from  which  I  should  have 
found  it  impossible  to  extricate  myself.  Thousands  might  have 
seen  that  I  was  jealous,  without  being  able  to  see  any  just  cause 
for  my  jealousy.  It  was,  however,  quite  enough  for  a  proud 
spirit  like  my  own,  that  its  secret  fear  should  be  revealed.  It 
did  not  much  matter,  after  this,  whether  my  suspicions  were,  or 
were  not  causeless.  It  was  enough  that  they  were  known  — 
that  busy,  meddling  women,  and  men  about  town,  should  dis- 
tinguish me  with  a  finger — should  say:  "His  wife  is  very 
pretty  and — very  charitable!" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

I,  too,  could  laugh,  under  such  musings,  and  in  the  spirit  of 
Mrs.  Delaney — late  Clifford. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  The  street  echoed,  beneath  the  windows 
of  that  reputable  lady,  with  my  involuntary,  fiendish  laughter. 
I  stood  there — and  the  music  rang  through  my  senses  like  the 
pries  of  exulting  demons.  She  was  there — of  my  wife  the 
thoughts  ran  thus,  she  was  there,  whirling,  perchance,  in  the 
mazes  of  that  voluptuous  dance,  then  recently  become  fashionable 
among  us ;  his  aim  about  her  waist  —  her  form  inclining  to  his,  as 
if  seeking  support  and  succor — and  both  of  them  forgetting  all 
things  but  the  mutual  intoxication  which  swallowed  up  all  things 
and  thoughts  in  the  absorbing  sensuality  of  one !  Or,  perhaps, 
still  apart,  they  sat  to  themselves — her  ear  fastened  upon  his 
]ips  —  her  consciousness  given  wholly  to  his  discourse ;  and  that 
discourse!  —  "Ha!  ha!  ha!"  —  I  laughed  again,  as  I  hurried 
away  from  the  spot;  with  gigantic  strides,  taking  the  direction 
which  led  to  my  own  lonely  dwelling. 

All  was  stillness  there,  but  there  was  no  peace.  I  entered 
the  piazza,  threw  myself  into  a  chair,  and  gazed  out  upon  the 
leaves  and  waters,  trying  to  collect  my  scattered  thoughts — try- 
Ing  to  subdue  my  blood,  that  my  thoughts  might  meet  in  delibera- 
tion ripen  the  desolating  prospect  which  was  then  spread  before 


KINGSLBY.  197 

me.  But  I  struggled  for  this  in  vain.  But  one  thought  was 
mine  at  that  hour.  But  one  fearful  image  gathered  in  complete- 
ness arvd  strength  before  my  mind ;  and  that  was  one  calcula- 
ted to  banish  all  others  and  baffle  all  their  deliberations. 

"The  blood  of  William  Edgerton  must  be  shed,  and  by 
these  hands !  My  disgrace  is  known !  There  is  no  help 
for  it  1" 

I  had  repeatedly  resolved  this  gloomy  conviction  in  my  mind. 
1'j  was  now  to  receive  shape  and  substance.  It  was  a  thing  no 
longer  to  be  thought  upon.  It  was  a  thing  to  be  done !  This 
necessity  staggered  me.  The  kindness  of  the  father,  the  kind- 
ness and  long  true  friendship  of  the  son  himself,  how  could  I  re- 
cuite  this  after  such  a  fashion  ?  How  penetrate  the  peaceful 
home  of  that  fond  family  with  an  arm  of  such  violence,  as  to 
i  end  their  proudest  offspring  from  the  parental  tree,  and,  per- 
haps, in  destroying  it,  blight  for  ever  the  venerable  trunk  upon 
which  it  was  borne  1  Let  it  not  be  fancied  that  these  feelings 
were  without  effect.  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  I  weakly, 
willingly,  yielded  to  the  conviction  of  this  cruel  necessity — that 
I  determined,  without  a  struggle,  upon  this  seemingly  neces- 
sary measure  !  Verily,  I  then,  in  that  dreary  house  and  hour, 
wrestled  like  a  strong  man  with  the  unbidden  prompter,  who 
counselled  me  to  the  deed  of  blood.  I  wrestled  with  him  as  the 
desperate  man,  knowing  the  supernatural  strength  of  his  enemy, 
wrestles  with  a  demon.  The  strife  was  a  fearful  one.  I  could 
not  suppress  my  groans  of  agony  j  and  the  cold  sweat  gather- 
ed and  stood  upon  my  forehead  in  thick,  clammy  drops. 

But  the  struggle  was  vain  to  effect  my  resolution.  It  had 
been  too  long  present  as  a  distinct  image  before  my  imagination. 
I  had  already  become  too  familiar  with  its  aspects.  It  had  the 
look  of  a  fate  to  my  mind.  I  fancied  myself — as  probably 
most  men  will  do,  whose  self-esteem  is  very  active  —  the  victim 
of  a  fate.  My  whole  life  tended  to  confirm  this  notion.  I  was 
chosen  out  from  the  beginning  for  a  certain  work,  in  which,  my- 
self a  victim,  I  was  to  carry  out  the  designs  of  destiny  in  the 
ease  of  other  victims.  I  had  struggled  long  not  to  believe  this 
— not  to  do  this  work.  But  the  struggle  was  at  last  at  an  end. 
I  was  convinced,  finally.  I  was  ready  for  the  work.  I  was 
resigned  10  my  fate.  But  oh  !  how  grateful  once  had  one  of  these 


198  CONFESSION,  OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

victims  seemed  in  my  eyes !     How  beautiful,  and  still  kow  dear 
was  the  other ! 

I  rose  from  my  seat  and  struggle,  with  the  air  of  one  strength- 
ened by  thoughtful  resolution  for  any  act.  Prayer  could  not 
have  strengthened  me  more.  I  felt  a  singular  degree  of  strength, 
I  can  well  understand  that  of  fanaticism  from  my  own  feelings. 
Nothing,  in  the  shape  of  danger,  could  have  deterred  me  from 
the  deed.  I  positively  had  no  remaining  fear.  But,  how  was  it 
to  be  done  ?  With  this  inquiry  in  my  mind,  still  unanswered, 
I  took  a  light,  went  into  my  study,  and  drew  from  my  escritoir 
the  few  small  weapons  which  I  had  in  possession.  These  are 
soon  named.  One  was  a  neat  little  dirk — broad  in  blade, 
double-edged,  short — sufficient  for  all  my  purposes.  I  examined 
my  pistols  and  loaded  them — a  small,  neat  pair,  the  present  of 
Edgerton  himself.  This  fact  determined  me  not  to  use  them. 
I  restored  them  to  the  escritoir ;  put  the  dagger  between  the  folds 
of  my  vest,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  house. 

At  this  moment  a  heavy  knocking  was  heard  at  the  gate,  I 
resumed  my  seat  in  the  piazza  until  the  servant  should  report 
the  nature  of  the  interruption.  He  was  followed  in  by  my 
friend  Kingsley. 

'*  I  am  glad  to  find  you  home,"  said  he  abruptly,  grasping 
my  hand ;  "  home,  and  not  a-bed.  The  hour  is  late,  I  know, 
but  the  devil  never  keeps  ordinary  hours,  and  men,  driven  by 
his  satanic  majesty,  have  some  excuse  for  following  his  ex- 
ample." 

This  exordium  promised  something  unusual.  The  manner  of 
Kingsley  betrayed  excitement.  Nay,  it  was  soon  evident  he 
had  been  taking  a  superfluous  quantity  of  wine.  His  voice 
was  thick,  and  he  spoke  excessively  loud  in  order  to  be  intelligi 
ble.  There  was  something  like  a  defying  desperation  in  his 
tones,  in  the  dare-devil  swagger  of  his  movement,  and  the  almost 
iron  pressure  of  his  grasp  upon  my  fingers.  I  subdued  my 
own  passions — nay,  they  were  subdued — singularly  so,  by  the 
resolution^!  had  made  before  his  entrance,  and  was  aole,  there- 
fore, to  appear  calm  and  smooth  as  summer  water  in  his  cyca. 

"  What's  the  matter  V  I  asked.  "  You  seem  excited.  No  evil, 
I  trust  ?" 

"•Evil,  indeed  !     Not  much;  but  oven  if  it  were,  ..  tell  yon 


-?.  191* 

Ned  Clifford;  1  am  just  now  in  the  Kkooi  to  aay»  *  Evil  be  them 
my  good !'  I  have  reasc  a  io  say  it ;  *nd>  by  the  powers,  it  will 
not  be  said  onl  7.  I  will  make  e^u  my  good  after  a  fashion  of 
my  own ;  tut  how  much  good  or  how  little  evil,  will  be  yet  an- 
other question." 

I  was  interested,  in  spite  of  myself,  by  the  vehemence  and 
unusual  seriousness  of  my  companion's  manner.  It  somewhat 
harmonized  with  my  own  temper,  and  in  a  measure  beguiled 
me  into  a  momentary  heedlessness  of  my  particular  griefs.  I 
urged  him  to  a  more  frank  statement  of  the  things  that  troubled 
him. 

"  Can  I  serve  you  in  anything  V9.  was  the  inquiry  which  con- 
cluded my  assurance  that  I  was  sufficiently  his  friend  to  sym- 
pathize with  him  in  his  afflictions. 

"  You  can  serve  me,  and  I  need  your  service.  You  can  serve 
me  in  two  respects :  nay,  if  you  do  not,  I  know  not  which  side 
to  turn  for  service.  In  the  first  place,  then,  I  wish  a  hundred 
dollars,  and  I  wish  it  to-night.  In  the  next  place,  I  wish  a 
companion — a  man  not  easily  scared,  who  will  follow  where 
I  lead  him,  and  take  part  in  a  '  knock  down  and  drag  out,'  if 
it  should  become  necessary,  without  asking  the  why  and  the 
wherefore." 

"  You  shall  have  the  money,  Kingsley." 

"  Stay  !     Perhaps  I  may  never  pay  it  you  again." 

"  I  shall  regret  that,  for  I  can  ill  afford  to  lose  any  such  sum ; 
but,  even  to  know  that  would  not  prevent  me  from  lending  you 
in  your  need.  It  is  enough  that  you  are  in  want.  You  tell 
me  you  are." 

"  I  am ;  but  my  wants  are  not  such  as  a  pure  moralist,  how- 
ever strong  might  be  his  friendship,  would  be  disposed  to  gratify. 
I  shall  stake  that  money  on  the  roll  of  the  dice." 

"  Impossible !     You  do  not  game !" 

"  True  as  a  gospel !  Hark  you,  Clifford,  and  save  us  the 
homily.  I  am  a  ruined  man — ruined  by  the  d— — d  dice  and 
the  deceptive  cards.  I  shall  pay  you  back  the  hundred  dollars, 
but  I  shall  have  precious  little  after  that." 

"  But,  surely,  I  was  not  misinformed.  You  were  rich  a  few 
yaars  ago/' 

14  A  few  months  !     But  the  case  is  the  same*     I  am  poor  now. 


200  acrissBsiON   OB  THE  BLIND  HEART, 


My  riches  had  wings.  I  am  reduced  to  my  tail-feathers  ;  but  I 
will  flourish  with  these  to  the  last.  I  have  fallen  among  thieves 
They  have  clipped  my  plumage  —  close!  close  I  They  have 
stripped  me  of  everything,  but  some  small  matters  which,  when 
sold,  will  just  suffice  to  get  me  horse  or  halter.  Some  dirty 
acres  in  Alabama,  are  all  I  absolutely  have  remaining  of  any 
real  value.  But  there  is  one  thing  that  I  may  have,  if  I  stake 
boldly  for  it." 

"  You  will  only  lose  again.  The  hope  of  a  gamester  rises, 
in  due  degree,  with  the  increasing  lightness  of  his  pockets." 

"  Do  not  mistake  me.  I  hope  nothing  from  your  hundred 
dollars  ;  indeed,  fifty  will  answer.  I  propose  to  employ  it  only 
as  a  pretext.  I  expect  to  lose  it,  and  lose  it  this  very  night. 
But  it  will  give  me  an  opportunity  to  ascertain  what  I  have 
suspected  —  too  late,  indeed,  to  save  myself  —  that  I  have  been 
the  victim  of  false  dice  and  figured  cards.  You  say  you  will 
let  me  have  the  money  —  will  you  go  with  me—  -Trill  you  see 
me  through  ?" 

He  extended  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  I  grasped  it.  He  shook 
it  with  a  hearty  feeling,  while  a  bright  smile  almost,  dissipated 
the  cloud  from  his  face. 

"  You  are  a  man,  Clifford  ;  and  now,  would  you  believe  it, 
our  excellent,  immaculate  young  friend,  Mr.  William  Edgerton, 
refused  me  this  money." 

"  Strange  !  Edgerton  is  not  selfish  —  he  is  noi  msan  I  From 
that  vice  he  is  certainly  free." 

"  By  G-d,  I  don't  know  that  !  He  refused  ma  the  money  i, 
refused  to  go  with  me.  I  saw  him  at  eight  o'clock,  at  his  own 
room,  where  he  was  rigging  himself  out  for  gome  d  --  d  tea- 
drinking;  told  him  my  straits,  my  losses,  my  object  and  all; 
and  what  was  his  plea,  think  you  ?  Why,  he  disapproved  of 
gambling;  couldn't  think  of  lending  me  a  sixpence  for  any 
such  purpose  ;  and,  as  for  going  into  such  a  suspected  quarter 
as  a  gambling-house  —  wouldn't  do  it  for  the  world  !  Was  thers 
ever  such  a  puritan  —  such  a  humbug  !" 

I  did  William  Edgerton  only  justice  in  my  reply  s-  — 

"  I've  no  doubt,  Kingsley,  that  such  are  his  real  principles. 
He  would  have  lent  you  thrice  the  money,  freely,  had  not  your 
object  been  avowed." 


KINGSLEY. 

"But  what  a  devil  sort  of  despotism  is  that!  Oan't  a 
friend  get  drunk,  or  game,  or  swagger  ?  may  lie  not  depart 
from  the  highway,  and  sidle  into  an  alley,  without  souring 
his  friend's  temper  and  making  him  stingy  ?  I  don't  under- 
stand it  at  all.  I'm  glad,  at  least,  to  find  you  are  of  another 
sort  of  stuff." 

"Nay,  Kingsley,  I  will  lend  you  the  money — go  with  you, 
as  you  desire ;  but,  understand  me,  I  do  not,  no  more  than  Ed- 
gerton,  approve  of  this  gambling." 

"  Tut,  tut !  I  don't  want  you  to  preach,  though  I  could  hear 
you  with  a  devilish  sight  better  temper  than  him.  There's  a 
hundred  things  that  one's  friend  don't  approve  of,  but  shall  he 
desert  him  for  all  that?  Leave  him  to  be  plucked,  and  kicked, 
and  abandoned;  and,  moralizing,  with  a  grin  over  his  fain, 
say,  '  I  told  you  so  ! '  No  !  no  !  Give  me  the  fellow  that'll 
stand  by  me — keep  me  out  of  evil,  if  he  can,  but  stand  by 
me,  nevertheless,  at  all  events ;  and  not  suffer  me  to  be  swal- 
lowed up  at  the  last  moment,  when  an  outstretched  finger 
might  save!" 

"  But,  am  I  to  think,  Kingsley,  that  my  help  can  do  this  V 

"No!  not  exactly — it  may — but  if  it  does  not,  what  then? 
I  shall  lose  the  money,  but  you  sha'n't.  But,  truth  to  speak, 
Clifford,  I  do  not  propose  to  myself  the  recovery  of  what  is 
lost.  I  know  I  have  been  the  prey  of  sharpers.  That  is  to 
say,  I  have  every,  reason  to  believe  so,  and  I  have  had  a  hint 
to  that  effect.  I  have  a  spice  of  the  devil  in  me,  accordingly 

—  a  mocking,  mortifying  devil,  that  jeers  me  with  my  d d 

simplicity ;  and  I  propose  to  go  and  let  the  swindlers  know, 
in  a  way  as  little  circuitous  as  possible,  that  I  am  not  blind 
to  the  fact  that  they  have  made  an  ass  of  me.  There  will 
be  some  satisfaction,  in  that.  I  will  write  myself  down  aa 
ass,  for  their  benefit,  only  to  enjoy  the  satisfaction  of  kick- 
ing a,  little  like  one.  I  invite  you  on  a  kicking  expedi- 
tion." 

I  felt  for  my  dagger  in  my  bosom,  as  I  answered :  "  Very 
good  !  Have  you  weapons  ?" 

"  Hickory  !  You  see !  a  moderate  axe-handle,  that'll  make 
its  sentiments  understood  You  are  warned;  you  see  what 

9* 


202  CONFESSION,  (2  THE  BLIND  HEABT. 

you  are  to  expect.    I  will  not  take  you  in.    Are  you  ready  for 
a  scratch?" 

"Aliens!"  I  replied  indifferently.  The  truth  is,  my  bosom 
was  full  of  a  recklessness  of  a  far  more  sweeping  character 
than  his  own.  I  was  in  the  mood  for  strife.  It  promised 
only  the  more  thoroughly  to  prepare  me  for  the  darker  trial 
which  was  before  me,  and  which  my  secret  soul  was  medita- 
ting all  the  while  wiit  an  imtense  sac?  gloomy  tenacity  of 
purpose^ 


MORALS  OF  ENTERPRISE.  203 


OHA*  TEB 

MORALS   O/   ENTERPRISE. 

I  GOT  him  the  money  he  reqiaied;  and  we  were  about  to  set 
forth,  when  he  exclaimed  abruptly ; — 

"  Put  money  in  thy  own  purse,  Clifford.  It  may  be  neces- 
sary to  practise  a  little  ruse  de  guerre.  In  playing  my  game* 
it  may  be  important  that  you  should  seem  to  play  one  also. 
You  have  no  scruples  to  fling  the  dice  or  fliit  the  cards  for  the 
nonce." 

"  None !  But  I  should  like  to  know  your  plans.  Tell  me, 
in  the  first  place,  your  precise  object." 

"  Simply  to  detect  certain  knaves,  and  save  certain  fools. 
The  knaves  have  ruined  me,  and  I  make  no  lamentations ;  but 
there  are  others  in  their  clutches  still,  quite  as  ignorant  as  my- 
self, who  may  be  saved  before  they  are  stripped  entirely.  The 
object  is  not  a  bad  one ;  for  the  rest,  trust  to  me.  I  me/an  no 
harm ;  a  little  mischief  only ;  and,  at  most,  a  tweak  of  one 
proboscis  or  more.  There's  risk,  of  a  certainty,  as  there  is  in 

sucking  an  egg ;  but  you  are  a  man !  Not  like  that  d d 

milksop,  who  gives  up  his  friend  as  soon  as  he  gets  poor,  and 
proffers  him  a  sermon  by  way  of  telling  him — precious  infor- 
mation, truly — that  he's  in  a  fair  way  to  the  devil.  The  toss 
of  a  copper  for  such  friendship." 

The  humor  of  Kingsley  tallied  somewhat  with  my  own.  It 
had  in  it  a  spice  of  recklessness  which  pleased  me.  Perhaps, 
too,  it  tended  somewhat  to  relieve  and  qualify  the  intenseness 
of  that  excitement  in  my  brain,  which  sometimes  rose  to  such 
a  pitch  as  led  me  to  apprehend  madness.  That  I  was  i» 
monomaniac  has  been  admitted,  perhaps  not  a  moment  *-c  80vS 


204  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

for  tbe  Author's  candor.  The  sagacity  of  the  reader  made  him 
independent  of  the  admission. 

"  Your  beggar,"  said  he,  somewhat  abruptly,  "  has  the  only 
true  feeling  of  independence.  Absolutely,  I  never  knew  till 
now  what  it  was  to  be  thoroughly  indifferent  to  what  might 
come  to-morrow.  I  positively  care  for  nothing.  I  am  the  first 
prince  Sans  Souci.  That  shall  be  my  title  when  I  get  among 
the  Cumanches.  I  will  have  a  code  of  laws  and  constitution 
to  suit  my  particular  humor,  and  my  chief  penalties  shall  be  in- 
flicted upon  your  fellows  who  grunt.  A  sigh  shall  incur  a 
week's  solitary  confinement ;  a  sour  look,  pillory ;  and  for  a 
groan,  the  hypochondriac  shall  lose  his  head !  My  prime 
minister  shall  be  the  fellow  who  can  longest  use  his  tongue  with- 
out losing  his  temper ;  and  the  man  who  can  laugh  and  jest 
shall  always  have  his  plate  at  my  table.  Good-humored  people 
shall  have  peculiar  privileges.  It  shall  be  a  certificate  in  one's 
favor,  entitling  him  to  so  many  acres,  that  he  takes  the  world 
kindly.  Such  a  man  shall  have  two  wives,  provided  he  can 
keep  them  peacefully  in  the  same  house.  His  daughters  shall 
have  dowries  from  government.  The  prince  of  Sans  Souci  will 
himself  provide  for  them." 

I  made  some  answer,  half  jest,  half  earnest,  in  a  mood  of 
mocking  bitterness,  which,  perhaps,  more  truly  accorded  with 
the  temper  of  both  of  us.  He  did  not  perceive  the  bitterness, 
however. 

"You  jest,  but  mine  is  not  altogether  jest.  Half-serious 
glimpses  of  what  I  tell  you  float  certainly  before  my  eyes. 
Such  things  may  happen  yet,  and  the  southwest  is  the  world  in 
which  you  are  yet  to  see  many  wondrous  things.  The  time 
must  come  when  Texas  shall  stretch  to  Mexico.  These  mise- 
rable slaves  and  reptiles — mongrel  Spaniards  and  mongrel  In- 
dians—  can  not  very  long  bedevil  that  great  country.  It  must 
fall  into  other  hands.  It  must  be  ours;  and  who,  when  that 
time  comes,  will  carry  into  the  field  more  thorough  claims  than 
mine.  Master  of  myself,  fearing  nothing,  caring  for  nothing; 
with  a  gallant  steed  that  knows  my  voice,  and  answers  with 
whinny  and  pricked  ears  to  my  encouragement ;  with  a  rifle 
tha;  *,an  clip  a  Mexican  —  dollar  or  man — at  a  hundred  yards, 
4nc  a  ae<trt  that  can  defy  the  devil  over  his  own  dish,  and  with 


MORALS  OF  ENTERPRISE.  205 

but  one  spoon  between  us — and  who  so  likely  to  win  his  prin- 
cipality as  myself?  Look  to  see  it,  Clifford  ,  I  shall  be  a  prince 
in  Mexico ;  and  when  you  hear  of  the  prinoe  Sans  Souci  be 
assured  you  know  the  man.  Seek  me  then,  and  ask  what  you 
will.  You  have  carte  blanche  from  this  moment." 

"  I  shall  certainly  keep  it  in  mind,  prince." 

"  Do  so  :  laugh  as  you  please ;  it  is  only  becoming  that  yon 
should  laugh  in  the  presence  of  Sans  Souci ;  but  do  not  laugh 
in  token  of  irreverence.  You  must  not  be  too  skeptical.  It 
does  not  follow  because  I  am  a  dare-devil  that  I  am  a  thought- 
less one.  I  have  been  so,  perhaps,  but  from  this  moment  I  go 
to  work  !  I  shall  be  fettered  by  fortune  no  longer.  Thank 
Heaven,  that  is  now  done  —  gone — lost ;  I  am  free  from  its  in- 
cumbrance  !  I  feel  myself  a  prince,  indeed ;  a  man,  every  inch 
of  me.  This  night  I  devote  as  a  fitting  finish  to  my  old  lifeless 
existence. 

"Hear  me!"  he  continued;  "you  laugh  again,  Clifford — 
very  good  !  Laugh  on,  but  hear  me.  You  shall  hear  more  of 
me  in  time  to  come.  I  fancy  I  shall  be  a  fellow  of  considerable 
importance,  not  in  Texas  simply,  or  in  Mexico,  but  here  -  -here 
in  your  own  self-opinionated  United  States.  Suppose  a  few 
things,  and  go  along  with  me  while  I  speak  them.  Thr.t  Texas 
must  stretch  to  Mexico  I  hold  to  be  certain.  A  very  few  year& 
will  do  that.  It  needs  only  thirty  thousand  more  men  from 
our  southern  and  southwestern  States,  and  the  brave  old  Eng- 
lish tongue  shall  arouse  the  best  echoes  in  the  city  of  Monte- 
zuma  !  That  done,  and  floods  of  people  pour  in  from  all  quar- 
ters. It  needs  nothing  but  a  feeling  of  security  and  peace  — » 
conviction  that  property  will  be  tolerably  safe,  under  a  tolerably 
stable  government — in  other  words,  an  Anglo-Saxon  govern- 
ment—  to  tempt  millions  of  discontented  emigrants  from  all  quar- 
ters of  the  world.  Will  this  result  have  no  results  of  its  own, 
think  you  1  Will  the  immense  resources  of  Mexico  and  Texas, 
represented,  as  they  then  will  be,  by  a  stern,  pressing,  per- 
forming people,  have  no  effect  upon  these  states  of  yours  1 
They  will  have  the  greatest ;  nay,  they  will  become  essential 
to  balance  your  own  federal  weight,  and  keep  you  all  in  equi- 
librio.  For  look  you,  the  first  hubbub  with  Great  Britain  g:.ve& 
you  Canada,  at  :he  expense  of  some  of  your  coast-towns,  a  few 


*2U fi  CONFESSION,   OR   THE   BLIND   HEART. 

millions  of  treasure,  and  the  loss  of  fifty  thousand  men,  A 
I  ad  exchange  for  the  south ;  for  Canada  will  make  six  ponder- 
ous Ftates,  lr  e  policy  and  character  of  which  will  he  New  Eng- 
land all  over  To  balance  this  you  will  have  your  Florida  ter- 
ritory,* of  which  two  feeble  states  may  be  made.  Not  enough 
for  your  purposes.  But  the  same  war  with  England  will  render 
it  necessary  tint  your  fleet  should  take  possession  of  Cuba; 
which,  aftei-  a  civil  apology  to  Spain  for  taking  such  a  liberty 
with  her  possessions,  and,  perhaps,  a  few  millions  by  way  of 
hush  money,  you  carve  into  two  more  states,  and,  in  this  man- 
ner, try  to  bolster  up  your  federal  relations.  How  many  of  her 
West  India  islands  Great  Britain  will  be  able  to  keep  after 
such  a  war,  is  another  problem,  the  solution  of  which  will  de- 
pend upon  the  relative  strength  of  fleets  and  success  of  seaman- 
chip.  These  islands,  which  should  of  right  be  ours,  and  with- 
out which  we  can  never  be  sure  against  any  maritime  power  so 
great  and  so  arrogant  as  England,  once  conquered  by  our  arms, 
nnd  their  natural,  moral,  and  social  affinities  in  the  southern 
states  entirely ;  and,  so  far,  contribute  to  strengthen  you  in 
your  congressional  conflicts.  But  these  are  not  enough,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  the  population  of  states,  purely  agricultural, 
i»evcr  //lakes  that  progress  which  is  made  in  this  respect  by  a 
Commercial  and  manufacturing  people.  With  the  command  of 
She  gulf,  the  possession  of  an  independent  fleet  by  the  Texans, 
the  political  characteristics  of  the  states  of  Carolina,  Georgia, 
Florida,  Alabama,  Mississippi,  Louisiana,  and  Arkansas,  must 
undergo  certain  marked  changes,  which  can  only  be  neutralized 
?y  the  adoption,  on  the  part  of  these  states,  of  a  new  policy 
corresponding  with  their  change  of  interests.  How  far  the 
cultivation  of  cotton  by  Texas  will  lead  to  its  abandonment  in 
Carolina  and  Georgia,  is  a  question  which  the  next  ten  years 
must  solve.  That  they  will  be  compelled  to  abandon  it  is  in- 
evitable, unless  they  can  succeed  in  raising  the  article  at  six 
cents ;  a  probability  which  no  cotton-planter  in  either  of  these 
ctatfts  will  be  willing  to  contemplate  now  for  an  instant.  Mean- 
while, Texas  is  spreading  herself  right  and  left.  She  conquers 
the  (jumanches,  subdues  the  native  mongrel  Mexicans.  Her 
HoGBtons  and  Lamars  are  succeeded  by  other  and  abler  men, 
*  Florida,  since  admitted,  but  unhappily,  as  a  single  state. 


MORALS  OF  ENTERPRISE.  2i>7 

under  whose  control  the  evils  of  government,  which  follow  3(? 
the  sway  of  such  small  animals  as  the  Guerreros,  and  the  Boli 
vars,  the  Bustamentes,  and  Sant'  Annas,  are  very  soon  eradi 
cated ;  and  the  country,  the  noblest  that  God  ever  gave  to  man, 
in  the  hands  of  men,  becomes  a  country  ! — a  great  and  glorious 
country — stretching  from  the  gulf  to  the  Pacific,  and  providi*  ^ 
the  natural  balance,  which,  in  a  few  years,  the  southern  stale , 
of  this  Union  will  inevitably  need,  by  which  alone  your  grea. 
confederacy  will  be  kept  together.  You  see,  therefore,  why  I 
speed  to  Texas.  Should  I  not,  with  my  philosophy,  my  horbe, 
and  my  rifle — not  to  speak  of  stout  heart  and  hand — reason 
ably  aspire  to  the  principality  of  Sans  Souci?  Laugh,  if  you 
please,  but  be  not  irreverent.  You  shall  have  carte  blanche,  then 
if  you  will  have  a  becoming  faith  now,  on  the  word  of  a  prince 
I  say  it,  It  is  written  —  Sans  Souci."* 

"  Altissimo,  excellentissimo,  serenissimo!" 

"  Bravissimo,  you  improve ;  you  will  make  a  courtier — but 
mum  now  about  my  projects.  We  must  suppress  our  dignities 
here.  We  are  at  the  entrance  of  our  hell !" 

We  had  reached  the  door  of  a  low  habitation  in  a  secluded 
street.  The  house  was  of  wood — an  ordinary  hovel  of  twc 
stories.  A  cluster  of  similar  fabrics  surrounded  it,  most  of  which, 
I  afterward  discovered — though  this  fact  could  not  be  con< 
jectured  by  an  observer  from  the  street — were  connected  by 
blind  alleys,  inner  courts,  and  chambers  and  passages  running' 
along  the  ground  floors.  We  stopped  an  instant,  Kingsley 
having  his  hand  upon  the  little  iron  knocker,  a  single  black  ring, 
that  worked  against  an  ordinary  iron  knob. 

"  Before  I  knock,"  said  he,  in  a  whisper,  "  before  I  knock, 
Clifford,  let  me  say  that  if  you  have  any  reluctance — " 

"  None  !  none !  knock  J" 

"  You  will  meet  with  some  dirty  rascals,  and  you  must  not 
only  meet  them  with  seeming  civility,  but  as  if  you  shared  in 
their  tastes  —  sought  the  same  objects  only — the  getting  of 
money — the  only  object  which  alone  is  clearly  comprehensible 
by  their  understanding." 

"  Go  ahead  !  I  will  see  you  through." 

*  All  these  speculations  were  written  in  1840-'41.  I  need  not  remark  upon 
those  which  have  since  been  verified. 


CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

*•'  A  word  more !  Get  yourself  in  play  at  a  different  table 
f:om  me.  You  will  find  rogues  enough  around,  ready  to  relieve 
y  o  u  jj  your  Mexicans.  Leave  me  to  my  particular  enemy ; 
yea  will  soon  see  whose  shield  I  touch — but  keep  an  occasion- 
-.1  ~ye  upon  us ;  and  all  that  I  ask  farther  at  your  hands,  should 
y  yj.  see  us  by  the  ears,  is  to  keep  other  fingers  from  taking  hold 
/  m'ns  " 

A  heavy  stroke  of  the  knocker,  followed  by  three  light  ones 
and  a  second  heavy  stroke,  produced  us  an  answer  from  within. 
TLe  door  unclosed,  and  by  the  light  of  a  dim  lamp,  I  discover- 
er before  me,  as  a  sort  of  warden,  a  little  yellow,  weather-beaten, 
si  in-dried  Frenchman,  whom  I  had  frequently  before  seen  at  a 
fruit-shop  in  another  part  of  the  city.  He  looked  at  me,  how- 
ever, without  any  sign  of  recognition  —  with  a  blank,  dull,  in- 
different countenance;  motioned  us  forward  in  silence,  and 
reclosing  the  door,  sunk  into  a  chair  immediately  behind  it.  I 
followed  my  companion  through  a  passage  which  was  unfathom- 
ably  dark,  up  a  flight  of  stairs,  which  led  us  into  a  sort  of 
refreshment  room.  Tables  were  spread,  with  decanters,  glasses, 
and  tumblers  upon  them,  that  appeared  to  be  in  continual  use. 
In  a  recess,  stood  that  evil  convenience  of  most  American  es- 
tablishments, whether  on  land  or  sea,  a  liquor  bar ;  its  shelves 
crowded  with  bottles,  all  of  which  seemed  amply  full,  and  ready 
to  complete  the  overthrow  of  the  victim,  which  the  other  appli- 
ances of  such  a  dwelling  must  already  have  actively  begun. 

"  Here  you  may  take  in  the  Dutch  courage,  Clifford,  should 
you  lack  the  native.  This,  I  know,  is  not  the  case  with  you, 
and  yet  the  novelty  of  one's  situation  frequently  overcomes  a 
sensitive  mind  like  fear.  Perhaps  a  julep  may  be  of  use." 

"None  for  me.  I  need  no  farther  stimulant  than  the 
mere  sense  of  mouvement.  I  take  fire,  like  a  wheel,  by  my 
own  progress." 

"  Pretty  much  the  same  case  with  myself.  But  I  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  drinking  here,  of  late,  and  too  deeply.  To-night, 
however,  as  I  said  before,  ends  all  these  habits.  If  there  is 
honey  in  the  carcass,  and  strength  from  the  sleep,  there  is  wisdom 
from  the  folly,  and  virtue  from  the  vice.  There  is  a  moral  as 
well  as  a  physical  recoil,  that  most  certainly  follows  the  over- 
charge ;  and  really,  speaking  according  to  my  sincere  conviction 


MORALS   OF   ENTERPRISE.  209 

I  never  felt  myself  to  be  a  better  man,  than  just  at  this  moment 
when  I  am  about  to  do  that  which  my  own  sense  of  morality 
fails  altogether  to  justify.  I  do  not  know  that  I  make  you  un- 
derstand my  feelings ;  I  scarcely  understand  them  myself ;  but 
of  this  sort  they  are,  and  I  am  really  persuaded  that  I  never 
felt  in  a  better  disposition  to  be  a  good  man  and  a  working 
man  than  just  at  the  close  of  a  career  which  has  been  equally 
profligate  and  idle." 

I  think  my  companion  can  be  understood.  There  seems,  in 
fact,  very  little  mystery  in  his  moral  progress.  I  understood 
him,  but  did  not  answer.  I  was  not  anxious  to  keep  up  the  ball 
»,f  conversation  which  he  had  begun  with  a  spirit  so  mixed  up 
cf  contradictions — so  earnest  yet  so  playful.  A  deep  sense  of 
shame  unquestionably  lurked  beneath  his  levity;  and  yet  I 
make  no  question  that  he  felt  in  truth,  and  for  the  first  time, 
that  degree  of  mental  hardihood  of  which  he  boasted. 

He  advanced  through  the  refreshment-room,  to  a  door  which 
led  to  an  apartment  in  an  adjoining  tenement.  It  was  closed, 
but  unfastened.  The  sound  of  voices,  an  occasional  buzz,  or  a 
Blight  murmur,  came  to  our  ears  from  within ;  that  of  rattling 
dice  and  rolling  balls  was  more  regular  and  more  intelligible. 
Kingsley  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch,  and  looked  round  to  me. 
His  eye  was  kindled  with  a  playful  sort  of  malicious  light.  A 
smile  of  pleasant  bitterness  was  on  his  lips.  He  said  to  me  in 
a  whisper :  — 

"  Stake  your  money  slowly.  A  Mexican  is  the  lowest  stake. 
Keep  to  that,  and  lose  as  little  as  possible.  You  will  soon  see 
me  sufficiently  busy,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  urge  my  labors 
forward,  so  as  to  make  your  purgatory  a  short  one.  I  shall  only 
wait  till  I  feel  myself  cheated  in  the  game,  to  begin  that  which 
I  came  for.  See  that  I  have  fair  play  in  that,  mon  ami,  and  I 
care  very  little  about  the  other." 

He  lifted  the  latch  as  he  conclude  1,  and  I  followed  him  into 
the  apartment. 


210  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

THE   HELL. 

THE  scene  that  opened  upon  us  was,  to  me,  a  painfully  'i'^*  :> 
esting  one.  It  was  a  mere  hell,  without  any  of  those  attra.<  v ,. 
adjuncts  which,  in  a  diseased  state  of  popular  refinement,  sr  i'j 
as  exists  in  the  fashionable  atmospheres  of  London  and  Pans, 
provides  it  with  decorations,  and  conceals  its  more  discouraging 
and  offensive  externals.  The  charms  rf  music,  lovely  women, 
gay  lights,  and  superb  drapery  and  furniture,  were  here  entirely 
wanting.  No  other  arts  beyond  the  single  passion  for  hazard, 
which  exists,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree 
in  every  human  breast,  were  here  employed  to  beguile  the  young 
and  unsuspecting  mind  into  indulgence.  The  establishment  into 
which  I  had  fallen,  seemed  to  presuppose  an  acquaintance,  al- 
ready formed,  of  the  gamester  with  his  fascinating  vice.  It 
was  evidently  no  place  to  seduce  the  uninitiate.  The  passion 
must  have  been  already  awakened — the  guardianship  of  the 
good  angel  lulled  into  indifference  or  slumber — before  the  young 
mind  could  be  soon  reconciled  to  the  moral  atmosphere  of  such 
a  scene. 

The  apartment  was  low  and  dimly  lighted.  Groups  of  small 
tables  intended  for  two  persons  were  all  around.  In  the  centre 
of  the  floor  were  tables  of  larger  size,  which  were  surrounded 
by  the  followers  of  Pharo.  Unoccupied  tables,  here  and  there, 
were  sprinkled  with  cards  and  domino ;  while,  as  if  to  render 
the  characteristics  of  the  place  complete,  a  vapor  of  smoke 
and  a  smell  of  beer  assailed  our  senses  as  we  entered. 

There  were  not  many  persons  present — I  conjectured,  at  a 
glance,  that  there  might  be  fifteen;  but  we  heard  occasional 
voices  from  an  inner  room,  and  a  small  door  opening  in  the  rear 
discovered  a  retreat  like  that  we  occupied,  in  the  dim  light  of 


THE   HELL.  211 

which  I  pe.-.ceived  moving  faces  and  shadows,  and  Kingsley  in- 
"ormod  me  that  there  were  several  rooms  all  similarly  occupied 
with  oure. 

An  examination  of  the  persons  around  me,  increased  the  un- 
pleasant feelings  which  the  place  had  inspired.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few,  the  greater  number  were  evidently  superior  to 
their  employments.  Several  of  them  were  young  men  like  my 
con  t  ^-c-on — men  not  yet  lost  to  sensibility,  who  looked  up  with 
somi  annoyance  as  they  beheld  Kingsley  accompanied  by  a 
stranger.  Two  or  three  of  the  inmates  were  veteran  gamesters. 
V^u  could  see  that  in  their  business-like  nonchalance — their 
rigid  muscles  —  the  manner  at  once  demure  and  familiar.  They 
were  evidently  "habitues  deVenfer" — men  to  whom  cards  and 
dice  were  as  absolutely  necessary  now,  as  brandy  and  tobacco 
vo  the  drunkard.  These  men  were  always  at  play.  Even  the 
smallest  interval  found  them  still  shuffling  the  cards,  and  look- 
ing up  at  every  opening  of  the  door,  as  if  in  hungering  antici- 
pation of  the  prey.  At  such  periods  alone  might  you  behold 
any  expression  of  anxiety  in  their  faces.  This  disappeared  en- 
tirely the  moment  that  they  were  in  possession  of  the  victim. 
That  imperturbable  composure  which  distinguished  them  was 
singularly  contrasted  with  the  fidgety  eagerness  and  nervous 
rapidity  by  which  you  could  discover  the  latter;  and  I  glanced 
over  the  operations  of  the  two  parties,  as  they  were  fairly 
shown  in  several  sets  about  the  room,  with  a  renewed  feeling  o 
wonder  how  a  man  so  truly  clever  and  strong,  in  some  things, 
as  Kingsley,  should  allow  himself  to  be  drawn  so  deeply  into 
such  low  snares ;  the  tricks  of  which  seemed  so  apparent,  and 
the  attractions  of  which,  in  the  present  instance,  were  obviously  • 
so  inferior  and  low.  I  little  knew  by  what  inoffensive  and 
gradual  changes  the  human  mind,  having  once  commenced  its 
downward  progress,  can  hurry  to  the  base ;  nor  did  I  sufficiently 
allow  for  that  love  of  hazard  itself,  in  games  of  chance,  which 
I  have  already  expressed  the  opinion,  is  natural  to  the  proper 
heart  of  man,  belongs  to  a  rational  curiosity,  and  arises,  most 
probably,  from  that  highest  property  of  his  intellect,  namely, 
the  love  of  art  and  intellectual  ingenuity.  It  would  be  very 
important  to  know  this  fact,  since  then,  instead  of  the  blind 
hostility  which  is  entertained  for  sports  of  this  description,  by 


212  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

certain  classes  of  moralists  among  us,  we  might  so  emp'oy  tlirii 
ministry  as  to  deprive  them  of  their  hurtfulness  and  mj'kc  tha-.Ti 
permanently  beneficial  in  the  cause  of  good  education. 

Kingsley  seemed  to  conjecture  my  thoughts.  A  sc\:l  *  of 
lofty  significance  expressing  a  feeling  of  mixed  scorn  and 
humility,  rose  upm  his  countenance  —  as  if  admitting  Lis  >wn 
feebleness,  Awhile  insisting  upon  his  recovered  strength  A 
sentence  whic  h  he  uttered  to  me  in  a  whisper,  at  this  m  >moi:t, 
was  intended  to  convey  some  such  meaning. 

"  It  was  only  when  thrown  to  the  earth,  Clifford,  that  the 
wrestler  recovered  his  strength." 

"That  fable,"  I  replied,  "  proves  thi  t  he  was  no  god,  Rt 
least.  Of  the  earth,  earthy,  he  found  strength  only  in  h?; 
sphere.  The  moment  he  aspired  above  it  the  god  crushed  him 
I  doubt  if  Hercules  could  have  derived  any  benefit  from  t)»  : 
same  source." 

"  Ah !  I  am  no  Hercules,  but  you  will  also  find  that  I  am  no 
Antseus.  I  fall,  but  I  rise  again,  and  I  am  not  crushed.  This 
is  peculiarly  the  source  of  human  strength." 

"  Better  not  to  fall." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  too  late  from  Utopia.     But — M 

We  were  interrupted ;  a  voice  at  my  elbow  —  a  soft,  clear, 
insinuating  voice  addressed  my  companion  :— 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  Kingsley,  I  rejoice  to  see  you." 

Kingsley  gave  me  a  single  look,  which  said  everything,  as 
he  turned  to  meet  the  new-comer.  The  latter  continued  :— 

"  Though  worsted  in  that  last  encounter,  you  do  not  despair, 
I  see." 

«  No  !  why  should  I  ?" 

"  True,  why  ?  Fortune  baffles  skill,  but  what  of  that  ?  She 
is  capricious.  Her  despotism  is  feminine ;  and  in  her  empire, 
more  certainly  than  any  other,  it  may  be  said  boldly,  that, 
with  change  of  day  there  is  change  of  doom.  It  is  not  always 
rain/' 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  we  may  have  such  a  long  spell  of  it  that 
everything  is  drowned.  '  It's  a  long  lane,'  says  the  proverb, 
*that  has  no  turn;'  but  a  man  be  done  up  long  before  he  gets 
to  the  turning  place." 

The  other  replied  by  some  of  the  usual  commonplaces  by 


THE  HELL.  213 

which,  in  condescending  language,  the  gamester  provokes  and 
stimulates  his  unconscious  victim.  Kingsley,  however,  had 
reached  a  period  of  experience  which  enabled  him  to  estimate' 
these  phrases  at  their  proper  worth. 

"  You  would  encourage  me,"  he  said  quietly,  and  in  tones 
which,  to  the  unnoteful  ear,  would  have  seemed  natural  enough, 
hut  which,  knowing  him  as  I  did,  were  slightly  sarcastic,  and 
containing  a  deeper  signification  than  they  gave  out :  "  but  you 
are  the  better  player.  I  am  now  convinced  of  that.  Some- 
thing there  is  in  fortune,  doubtless ;  my  self-esteem  makes  me 
willing  to  admit  that ;  and  yet  I  do  not  deceive  myself.  You 
have  been  too  much  for  me — you  are  !" 

"  The  difference  is  trifling,  very  trifling,  I  suspect.  A  little 
more  practice  will  soon  reconcile  that." 

'*  Ha  !  ha  !  you  forget  the  practice  is  to  be  paid  for." 

"  True,  but  it  is  the  base  spirit  only  that  scruples  at  the  cost 
of  its  accomplishments." 

"  Surely,  surely !" 

"  You  are  fresh  for  the  encounter  to-night  1" 

"  Pleasantly  put !  Is  the  query  meant  for  the  player  or  hig 
purse  1" 

"  Good,  very  good !  Why,  truly,  there  is  no  necessary  affinity 
between  them." 

"  And  yet  the  one  without  the  other  would  scarcely  be  ?T  !e 
to  commend  himself  to  so  excellent  an  artist  as  Mr.  Latour 
Cleveland.  Clifford,  let  me  introduce  you  to  my  enemy ;  Mr. 
Cleveland,  my  friend" 

In  this  manner  was  I  introduced.  Thus  was  I  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  particular  individual  whom  it  was  the  medi- 
tated purpose  of  Kingsley  to  expose.  But,  though  thus  marked 
in  the  language  of  his  introduction,  there  was  nothing  in  the 
tone  or  manner  of  my  companion,  at  all  calculated  to  alarm  the 
suspicions  of  the  other.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  a  sort  of 
reckless  joviality  in  the  air  of  abandon,  with  which  he  presented 
me  and  spoke.  A  natural  curiosity  moved  me  to  examine 
Cleveland  more  closely.  He  was  what  we  should  call,  in  com- 
mon speech,  a  very  elegant  young  man.  He  was  probably 
thirty  or  thirty-five  years  of  age,  tall,  graceful,  rather  slender- 
ish,  and  of  particular  nicety  in  his  dress.  All  his  clothes  were 


21-1  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND    HEART. 

disposed  with  the  happiest  precision.  White  kid-gloves  covered 
his  taper  fingers.  Withdrawn,  a  rich  diamond  blazed  upon  ono 
hand,  while  a  seal-ring,  of  official  dimensions,  with  characters 
cut  in  lava,  decorated  the  ether.  His  movements  betrayed  the 
same  nice  method  which  distinguished  the  arrangement  of  his 
dress.  His  evolutions  might  all  have  been  performed  by  trum- 
pet signal,  and  to  the  sound  of  measured  music.  He  was  evi- 
dently one  of  t  lose  persons  whose  feelings,  are  too  little  earnest, 
ever  to  affect  their  policy ;  too  little  warm  ever  to  disparage 
the  rigor  of  their  customary  play ;  one  of  those  cold,  nice  men, 
who,  without  having  a  single  passion  at  work  to  produce  one 
condition  of  feeling  higher  than  another,  are  yet  the  very  ideals 
of  the  most  narrow  and  concentrated  selfishness.  His  face  was 
thin,  pale,  and  intelligent.  His  lips  were  thick,  however — the 
eyes  bright,  like  those  of  a  snake,  but  side-looking,  never  direct, 
never  upward,  and  always  with  a  smiling  shyness  in  their  glance, 
in  which  a  suspicious  mind  like  my  own  would  always  find  suf- 
ficient occasion  for  distrust. 

Mr.  Cleveland  bestowed  a  single  keen  glance  upon  me  while 
going  through  the  ordeal  of  introduction.  But  his  scrutiny 
labored  under  one  disadvantage.  His  eyes  did  not  encounter 
ix/"7!*, !  One  loses  a  great  deal,  if  his  object  be  the  study  of 
Luman  nature,  if  he  fails  in  this  respect. 

'•  Much  pleasure  in  making  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Clifford ; 
trust,  however,  you  will  find  me  no  worse  enemy  than  your 
friend  has  done." 

"  If  he  find  you  no  worse,  he  will  find  himself  no  better. 
He  will  pay  for  his  enmity,  whatever  its  degree,  as  I  have  done, 
anc1  be  wiser,  by  reason  of  his  losses."  • 

"  Ah  !  you  think  too  much  of  your  ill  fortunes.  That  is  bad, 
It  takes  from  your  confidence  and  so  enfeebles  your  skill.  You 
should  think  of  it  less  seriously.  Another  cast,  and  the  tables 
chirjge.  You  will  have  your  revenge." 

"  I  will  /  "  said  Kingsley  with  some  emphasis,  and  a  gravity 
which  the  other  did  not  see.  He  evidently  heard  the  words 
only  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  them — from  the  lips 
of  young  gamesters  who  perpetually  delude  themselves  with 
hopes  based  upon  insane  expectations,  A  benignant  smile 
mantled  the  cheeks  of  the  gamester. 


THE   HELL.  215 

"  Ah,  well !  I  am  ready ;  but  if  you  think  me  too  much  for 
you—" 

He  paused.  The  taunt  was  deliberately  intended.  It  was 
the  customary  taunt  of  the  gamester.  On  the  minds  of  half 
the  number  of  young  men,  it  would  have  had  the  desired  effect 
—  of  goading  vanity,  and  provoking  the  self-esteem  of  the  con- 
ceited boy  into  a  sort  of  desperation,  when  the  powers  of  sense 
and  caution  become  mostly  suspended,  and  no  unnecessary 
suspicion  or  watchfulness  then  interferes  to  increase  the  diffi- 
culty of  plucking  the  pigeon.  I  read  the  smile  on  Kingsley's 
lip.  It  was  brief,  momentary,  pleasantly  contemptuous.  Then, 
suddenly,  as  if  he  had  newly  recollected  his  policy,  his  counte- 
nance assumed  a  new  expression — one  more  natural  to  the 
youth  who  has  been  depressed  by  losses,  vexed  at  defeat,  but 
flatters  himself  that  the  atonement  is  at  hand.  Perhaps,  some- 
thing of  the  latent  purpose  of  his  mind  increased  the  intense 
bitterness  in  the  manner  and  tones  of  my  companion. 

"  Too  much  for  me,  Mr.  Cleveland  !  No,  no !  You  are  wil- 
ling, I  see,  to  rob  good  fortune  of  some  of  her  dues.  You  crow 
too  soon.  I  have  a  shrewd  presentiment  that  I  shall  be  quite 
too  much  for  you  to-night." 

A  pleasant  and  well-satisfied  smile  of  Cleveland  answered 
the  speaker. 

"  I  like  that,"  said  he ;  "  it  proves  two  things,  both  of  which 
please  me.  Your  trifling  losses  have  not  hurt  your  fortunes, 
nor  the  adverse  run  of  luck  made  you  despond  of  better  suc- 
cess hereafter.  It  is  something  of  a  guaranty  in  favor  of  one's 
performance  that  he  is  sure  of  himself.  In  such  case  he  is 
equally  sure  of  his  opponent." 

"  Look  to  it,  then,  for  I  have  just  that  sort  of  self-guaranty 
which  makes  me  sure  of  mine.  I  shall  play  deeply,  that  I  may 
make  the  most  of  my  presentiments.  Nay,  to  show  you  how 
confident  I  am,  this  night  restores  me  all  that  I  have  lost,  or 
leaves  me  nothing  more  to  lose." 

The  eyes  of  the  other  brightened. 

"  That  is  said  like  a  man.  I  thank  you  for  your  warning. 
Shall  we  begin  ?" 

"Ready,  ay,  ready!"  was  the  response  of  Kingsley,  as  he 
turned  to  one  of  the  tables.  Quietly  laying  down  upon  it  tho 


216  CONFESSION,   OE  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

short,  heavy  stick  which  he  carried,  he  threw  off  his  gloves,  and 
ruhbed  his  hands  earnestly  together,  laughing  the  while  without 
restraint,  as  if  possessed  suddenly  of  some  very  pleasant  and 
ludicrous  fancy. 

"  They  laugh  who  win,"  remarked  Cleveland,  with  something 
of  coldness  in  his  manner. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  was  the  only  answer  of  Kingsley  to  this 
remark.  The  other  continued — and  I  now  clearly  perceived 
that  his  purpose  was  provocation : — 

"  It  is  certainly  a  pleasure  to  win  your  money,  Kingsley — 
you  bear  it  with  so  much  philosophy.  Nay,  it  seems  to  give 
you  pleasure,  and  thus  lessens  the  pain  I  should  otherwise  feel 
in  receiving  the  fruits  of  my  superiority." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  again  repeated  Kingsley.  "Excuse  me, 
Mr.  Cleveland.  I  am  reminded  of  your  remark, '  They  laugh 
who  win.'  I  am  laughing,  as  it  were,  anticipatively.  I  am  so 
certain  that  I  shall  have  my  revenge  to-night." 

Cleveland  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  some  curiosity, 
then  called : — 

"Philip!" 

He  was  answered  by  a  young  mulatto— a  tall,  good-looking 
fellow,  who  approached  with  a  mixed  air  of  equal  deference 
and  self-esteem,  plaited  frills  to  a  most  immaculately  white 
shirt-collar,  a  huge  bulbous  breastpin  in  his  bosom,  chains  and 
seals,  and  all  the  usual  equipments  of  Broadway  dandyism. 
The  fellow  approached  us  with  a  smile ;  his  eyes  looking  alter- 
nately to  Cleveland  and  Kingsley,  and,  as  I  fancied,  with  no 
unequivocal  sneer  in  their  expression,  as  they  settled  on  the 
latter.  A  significance  of  another  kind  appeared  in  the  look  of 
Cleveland  as  he  addressed  him. 

"Get  us  the  pictures,  Philip — the  latest  cuts— and  bring — 
ay,  you  may  bring  the  ivories." 

In  a  few  moments,  the  preliminaries  being  despatched,  the 
two  were  seated  at  a  table,  and  a  couple  of  packs  of  cards  were 
laid  beside  them.  Kingsley  drew  my  attention  to  the  cards. 
They  were  of  a  kind  that  my  experience  had  never  permitted 
me  to  see  before.  In  place  of  ordinary  kings  and  queens  and 
knaves,  these  figures  were  represented  in  attitudes  and  costumes 
the  most  indecent — such  as  the  prolific  genius  of  Parisian 


THE   HELL.  217 

bawdry  alone  could  conceive  and  delineate.  It  seems  to  be  a 
general  opinion  among  rogues  that  knavery  is  never  wholly 
triumphant  unless  the  mind  is  thoroughly  degraded;  and  for 
this  reason  it  is,  perhaps,  that  establishments  devoted  to  purposes 
like  the  present,  have,  in  most  countries,  for  their  invariable 
adjuncts,  the  brothel  and  the  bar-room.  If  they  are  not  in  the 
immediate  tenement,  they  are  sufficiently  nigh  to  make  the 
work  of  moral  prostitution  comparatively  easy,  in  all  its  ramifi- 
cations, with  the  young  and  inconsiderate  mind.  Kingsley 
turned  over  the  cards,  and  I  could  see  that  while  afiecting  to 
show  me  the  pictures  he  was  himself  subjecting  the  cards  to  a 
close  inspection  of  another  kind.  This  object  was  scarcely  per- 
ceptible to  myself,  who  knew  his  suspicions,  and  could  naturally 
conjecture  his  policy.  It  did  not  excite  the  alarm  of  his  antagonist. 

The  parties  sat  confronting  each  other.  Kingsley  drew  forth 
a  wallet,  somewhat  ostentatiously,  which  he  laid  down  beside 
him.  The  sight  of  his  wallet  staggered  me.  By  its  bulk  I 
should  judge  it  to  have  held  thousands ;  yet  he  had  assured  me 
that  he  had  nothing  beside,  the  one  hundred  dollars  which  he  had 
procured  from  me.  My  surprise  increased  as  I  saw  him  open 
the  wallet,  and  draw  from  one  of  its  pockets  the  identical  roll 
which  I  had  put  into  his  hands.  The  bulk  of  the  pocket-book 
seeemed  scarcely  to  be  diminished.  My  suspicions  were  begin- 
ning to  be  roused.  I  began  to  think  that  he  had  told  me  a  false- 
hood ;  but  he  looked  up  at  this  instant,  and  a  bright  manly 
smile  on  his  deep  purposeful  countenance,  reassured  me.  I  felt 
that  there  was  some  policy  in  the  business  which  was  not  for 
me  then  to  fathom.  The  cards  were  cut.  A  box  of  dice  was 
also  in  the  hands  of  Cleveland. 

"  Spots  or  pictures  ?"  said  Cleveland. 

"  Pictures  first,  I  suppose,"  said  Kingsley,  "  till  the  blood 
gets  up.     The  ivories  then  as  the  most  rapid.     But  these  pic- 
tures are  really  so  tempting.     A  new  supply,  Philip  !" 
-    "  Just  received,  sir,"  said  the  other. 

"And  how  shall  we  begin?"  demanded  Cleveland,  drawing 
a  handful  of  bills,  gold,  and  silver,  from  his  pocket ;  "  yellow, 
white,  or  brown  ?" 

It  was  thus,  I  perceived,  that  gold,  silver,  and  paper  money, 
were  described. 

10 


218  C05TESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

"  Shall  it  be  child's  play,  or-" 

"  Man's,  man's !"  replied  Kingsley,  with  some  impatience, 
"  I  am  for  beginning  with  a  cool  hundred,"  and,  to  my  con- 
sternation, he  unfolded  the  roll  he  had  of  me,  counted  out  the 
bills,  refolded  them  and  placed  them  in  a  saucer,  where  they 
were  soon  covered  with  a  like  sum  by  his  antagonist.  I  was 
absolutely  sickened,  and  stared  aghast  upon  my  reckless  com- 
panion. He  looked  at  me  with  a  smile. 

"  To  your  own  game,  Clifford.  You  will  find  men  enough  for 
your  money  in  either  of  the  rooms.  Should  you  run  short, 
come  to  me." 

Thus  confidently  did  he  speak ;  yet  he  had  actually  but  the 
single  hundred  which  he  had  so  boldly  staked  on  the  first  issue. 
I  thought  him  lost ;  but  he  better  knew  his  game  than  I.  He 
also  knew  his  man.  The  eyes  of  Cleveland  were  on  the  huge 
wallet  in  reserve,  of  which  the  "  cool  hundred"  might  naturally 
be  considered  a  mere  sample.  I  had  not  courage  to  wait  for 
the  result,  but  wandered  off,  with  a  feeling  not  unallied  to  terror, 
into  an  adjoining  apartment. 


DIG*.  219 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

FALSE   IffB 

THOUGH  confounded  with  what  I  had  seen  of  the  proceedings 
of  Kingplcy,  I  was  yet  willing  to  promote,  so  far  as  I  could, 
the  purpose  for  which  we  came.  I  felt  too,  that,  unless  I 
played,  that  purpose,  or  my  own,  might  reasonably  incur  sus- 
picion. To  rove  through  the  several  rooms  of  a  garnbling- 
house,  surveying  closely  the  proceedings  of  others,  without 
partaking,  in  however  slight  a  degree,  in  the  common  business 
of  the  establishment,  was  neither  good  policy  nor  good  manners. 
Unless  there  to  play,  what  business  had  I  there  1  Accordingly 
I  resolved  to  play.  But  of  these  games  I  knew  nothing.  It 
was  necessary  to  choose  among  them,. and,  without  a  choice  I 
turned  to  one  of  the  tables  where  the  genius  of  Roulette  pre- 
sided. A  motley  group,  none  of  whom  I  "knew,  surrounded  it. 
I  placed  my  dollar  upon  one  of  the  spots,  red  or  black,  I  know 
not  which,  and  saw  it,  in  a  moment  after,  spooned  up  with 
twenty  others  by  the  banker.  I  preferred  this  form  of  play  to 
any  other,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  did  not  task  my  own 
faculties,  and  left  me  free  to  bestow  my  glances  on  the  proceed- 
ings of  my  friend.  But  I  soon  discovered  that  the  contagion 
of  play  is  irreeistible ;  and  so  far  from  putting  my  stake  down 
at  intervals,  and  with  philosophic  indifference,  I  found  myself, 
after  a  little  while,  breathlessly  eager  in  the  results.  These, 
after  the  first  few  turns  of  the  machine,  had  ceased  to  be  un- 
favorable. I  was  confounded  to  discover  myself  winning.  In- 
stead of  one  I  put  down  two  Mexicans. 

"  Put  down  ten,"  said  one  of  the  bystanders,  a  dark,  sulky- 
looking  little  yellow  man,  who  seemed  a  veteran  at  these  places. 
"  Ton  .are  in  luck — make  the  most  of  it." 

The  master  of  the  ceremonies  scowled  upon  the  speaker  ;  an<5 


220  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEABT. 

this  determined  me  to  obey  his  suggestions.  I  did  BO,  and 
doubled  the  money ;  left  my  original  stake  and  the  winnings  on 
the  same  spot,  and  doubled  that  also ;  and  it  was  not  long  before, 
under  this  stimulus  of  success,  and  the  novelty  of  my  situation, 
I  found  myself  as  thoroughly  anxious  and  intensely  interested, 
as  if  I  had  gone  to  the  place  in  compliance  with  a  natural  pas- 
sion. I  know  not  how  long  I  had  continued  in  this  way,  but  I 
was  still  fortunate.  I  had  doubled  my  stakes  repeatedly,  and 
my  pockets  were  crammed  with  money. 

"  Stop  now,  if  you  are  wise,"  whispered  the  same  sulky -looking 
little  man  who  had  before  urged  me  to  go  on  more  boldly,  as  he 
sidled  along  by  me  for  this  object ;  "  never  ride  a  good  horse  to 
death.  There's  a  time  to  stop  just  as  there's  a  time  to  push, 
You  had  better  stop  now.  Stake  another  dollar  and  you  lose 
all  your  winnings." 

"  Let  the  gentleman  play  his  own  game,  Brinckoff.  I  don't 
see  why  you  come  here  to  spoil  sport." 

Such  was  the  remark  of  the  keeper  of  the  table.  He  had 
overheard  my  counsellor.  He  felt  his  losses,  and  was  angry.  I 
saw  that,  and  it  determined  me.  I  took  the  counsel  of  the 
stranger.  I  was  the  more  willing  to  do  so,  as  I  reproached  my- 
self for  my  inattention  to  my  friend.  It  was  time  to  see  what 
had  been  his  progress,  and  I  prepared  to  leave  the  theatre  of 
my  own  success.  Before  doing  so,  I  turned  to  my  counsellor, 
and  thus  addressed  him :  "  Your  advice  has  made  me  win ;  I 
trust  I  will  not  offend  a  gentleman  who  has  been  so  courteous, 
by  requesting  him  to  take  my  place  upon  a  small  capital." 

I  put  twenty  pieces  into  his  hand. 

"  I  am  but  a  young  beginner,"  I  continued,  "  and  I  owe  you 
for  my  first  lesson." 

"  You  are  too  good,"  he  said,  but  his  hand  closed  over  the 
dollars.  The  keeper  of  the  table  renewed  his  murmurs  of  dis- 
content as  he  saw  me  turn  away. 

"  Ah  !  bah  !  Petit,  what's  the  use  to  grumble  ?"  demanded  my 
representative.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  will  give  up  my  sport  for 
yours  ?  When  would  I  get  a  sixpence  to  stake,  if  it  were  not 
that  I  was  kind  to  young  fellows  just  beginning?  There;  growl 
go  more ;  the  twenty  Mexicans  upon  the  red !" 

The  next  minute  my  gratuity  was  swallowed  up  in  the  great 


FALSE  DICE.  221 

gjioon  of  the  banker.  I  -was  near  enough  to  see  the  result.  I 
flawed  another  ten  pieces  in  the  hand  of  the  unsuccessful 
gambler. 

"  Very  good,"  said  he ;  "  very  much  obliged  to  you ;  but.  if 
you  please,  I  will  do  no  more  to-night.  It's  not  my  lucky  night. 
I've  lost  every  set." 

"  As  you  please  —  when  you  please." 

"  You  are  a  gentleman,"  he  said ;  "  the  sooner  you  go  home 
the  better.  A  young  beginner  seldom  wins  in  the  small  hours." 

This  was  said  in  another  whisper.  I  thanked  him  for  his 
further  suggestion,  and  turned  away,  leaving  him  to  a  side 
squabble  with  the  banker,  who  finally  concluded  by  telling  him 
that  he  never  wished  to  see  him  at  his  table. 

"  The  more  fool  you,  Petit,"  said  Brinckoff;  "  for  the  youngster 
that  wins  comes  back,  and  he  does  not  always  win.  You  finish 
him  in  the  end  as  you  finished  me,  and  what  more  would  you 
have  ?" 

The  rest,  and  there  was  much  more,  was  inaudible  to  me.  I 
hurried  from  the  place  somewhat  ashamed  of  my  success,  I 
doubt  whether  I  should  have  had  the  like  feelings  had  I  lost. 
As  it  was,  never  did  possession  seem  more  cumbrous  than  the 
mixed  gold,  paper,  and  silver,  with  which  my  pockets  were  bur- 
dened. I  gladly  thought  of  Kingsley,  to  avoid  thinking  of  my- 
self. It  was  certain,  I  fancied,  that  he  had  not  lost,  else  how 
could  he  have  continued  to  play  ?  My  anxiety  hurried  me  into 
the  room  where  I  had  left  him. 

They  sat  together,  he  and  Cleveland,  as  before.  I  observed 
that  there  was  now  an  expression  of  anxiety — not  intense,  but 
obvious  enough  —  upon  the  countenance  of  the  latter.  Philip, 
too,  the  mulatto,  stood  on  one  side,  contemplating  the  proceed- 
ings with  an  air  of  grave  doubt  and  uncertainty  in  his  counte- 
nance. No  such  expression  distinguished  the  face  of  Kingsley. 
Never  did  a  light-hearted,  indifferent,  almost  mocking  spirit, 
shine  out  more  clearly  from  any  human  visage.  At  times  he 
chuckled  as  with  inward  satisfaction.  Not  unfrequently  he 
laughed  aloud,  and  his  reckless  "  Ha !  ha !  ha !"  had  more  than 
once  reached  and  startled  me  in  the  midst  of  my  own  play,  in 
the  adjoining  room.  The  opponents  had  discarded  their  "  pic- 
tures." They  were  absolutely  rolling  dice  for  their  stakes.  I 


222  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

saw  that  the  wallet  of  Kingsley  lay  untouched,  and  quito  «\s 
full  as  ever,  in  the  spot  where  he  had  first  laid  it  down.  A  pile 
of  money  lay  open  beside  him  ;  the  gold  and  silver  pieces  keep- 
ing down  the  paper.  When  he  saw  me  approach,  he  laughed 
aloud,  as  he  cried  out : — 

"  Have  they  disburdened  you,  Clifford  ?  Help  yourself.  I 
am  punishing  my  enemy  famously.  I  can  spare  it." 

A  green,  sickly  smile  mantled  the  lips  of  Cleveland.  He  re- 
plied in  low,  soft  tones,  such  as  I  could  only  partly  hear ;  and, 
a  moment  after,  he  swept  the  stake  before  the  two,  to  his  own 
side  of  the  table.  The  amount  was  large,  but  the  features  of 
Kingsley  remained  unaltered,  while  his  laugh  was  renewed  as 
heartily  as  if  he  really  found  pleasure  in  the  loss. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  that  is  encouraging ;  but  the  end  is  not  yet. 
The  tug  is  yet  to  come  !" 

I  now  perceived  that  Kingsley  took  up  his  wallet  with  one 
hand  while  he  spread  his  handkerchief  on  his  lap  with  the 
other.  Into  this  he  drew  the  pile  of  money  which  he  had  loose 
before  on  his  side  of  the  table,  and  appeared  to  busy  himself  in 
counting  into  it  the  contents  of  the  wallet.  This  he  did  with 
such  adroitness,  that,  though  I  felt  assured  he  had  restored  the 
wallet  to  his  bosom  with  its  bulk  undiminished,  yet  I  am  equal- 
ly certain  that  no  such  conclusion  .could  have  been  reached  by 
any  other  person.  This  done,  he  lifted  the  handkerchief,  full 
as  it  was,  and  dashed  it  down  upon  the  table. 

"  There  !  cover  that,  if  you  be  a  man !"  was  his  speech  of 
defiance. 

"  How  much  ?"  huskily  demanded  Cleveland. 

"  All !" 

"Ah!" 

"  Yes,  all.  I  know  not  the  number  of  dollars,  cents,  or  six- 
pences, but  face  it  with  your  winnings :  there  need  be  no  count- 
ing. It  is  loss  of  time.  Stir  the  stuff  with  your  fingers,  and 
you  will  find  it  as  good,  and  as  much,  as  you  have  here  to  put 
against  it.  On  that  hangs  my  fate  or  yours.  Mine  for  certain  f 
I  tell  you,  Mr.  Cleveland,  it  is  all !" 

Cleveland  lifted  the  ends  of  the  handkerchief,  as  if  weighing 
its  contents ;  and  then,  without  more  scruple,  flung  into  it  a  pile 
not  unlike  it  in  bulk  and  quality :  a  handful  of  mixed  gold 


FALSE  DICE.  "2'2X 

r,  and  silver.     Kingsley  grasped  the  dice  before  him,  anu 
with  a  single  shake  dashed  them  out  upon  the  table. 

"  Six,  four,  two,"  cried  Philip  with  a  degree  of  excitement 
which  did  not  appear  in  either  of  the  active  opponents.  Mean 
while  my  heart  was  in  my  mouth.  I  looked  on  Kingsley  with 
a  sentiment  of  wonder.  Every  muscle  of  his  face  was  com- 
posed into  the  most  quiet  indifference.  He  saw  my  glance,  and 
smilingly  exclaimed  : — 

"  I  trust  to  my  star,  Clifford.     Sans  Souci — remember!" 

No  time  was  allowed  for  more.  The  moment  was  a  breath 
less  one.  Cleveland  had  taken  up  the  dice.  His  manner  waa 
that  of  the  most  singular  deliberation.  His  eyes  were  cast  down 
upon  the  table.  His  lips  strongly  closed  together ;  and  now  it 
was  that  I  could  see  the  "keen,  piercing  look  which  Kingsley  ad- 
dressed to  every  movement  of  the  gambler.  I  watched  him 
also.  He  did  not  immediately  throw  the  dice,  and  I  was  con- 
scious of  some  motion  which  he  made  with  his  hands  before  he 
did  so.  What  that  motion  was,  however,  I  could  neither  have 
said  nor  conceived.  But  I  saw  a  grim  smile,  full  of  intelligence, 
suddenly  pass  over  Kingsley's  lips.  The  dice  descended  upon 
the  table  with  a  sound  that  absolutely  made  me  tremble. 

"  Five,  four,  six !"  cried  Philip,  loudly,  with  tones  of  evident 
exultation.  I  felt  a  sense  like  that  of  suffocation,  which  was 
unrelieved  even  by  the  seemingly  unnatural  laughter  of  my 
companion.  He  did  laugh,  but  in  a  manner  to  render  less 
strange  and  unnatural  that  in  which  he  had  before  indulged. 
Even  as  he  laughed  he  rose  and  possessed  himself  of  the  dice 
which  the  other  had  thrown  down. 

"  The  stakes  are  mine,"  cried  Cleveland,  extending  his  hand 
toward  the  handkerchief. 

"  No !"  said  Kingsley,  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  and  as  he 
spoke,  he  handed  me  the  kerchief  of  money,  which  I  grasped 
instantly,  and  thrust  with  some  difficulty  into  my  bosom.  This 
was  done  instinctively  ;  I  really  had  no  thoughts  of  what  I  was 
doing.  Had  I  thought  at  all  I  should  most  probably  have  re- 
fused to  receive  it. 

"  How !"  exclaimed  Cleveland,  his  face  becoming  suddenly 
pale.  "  The  cast  is  mine  —  fifteen  to  twelve  1" 

"  Ay,  scoundrel,  but  the  game  I  played  for  is  mine !     As  for 


224  CONFESSION,  OR  THE   BLIND  HEART. 

the  cast,  you  shall  try  another  which  you  shall  relish  less.     Do 
you  see  these  ?" 

He  showed  the  dice  which  he  had  gathered  from  the  table. 
The  gambler  made  an  effort  to  snatch  them  from  his  hands. 

"  Try  that  again,"  said  Kingsley,  "  and  I  lay  this  hickory 
over  your  pate,  in  a  way  that  shall  be  a  warning  to  it  for  ever." 

By  this  time  several  persons  from  the  neighboring  tables  and 
the  adjoining  rooms,  hearing  the  language  of  strife,  came  rash 
ing  in.  Kingsley  beheld  their  approach  without  concern.  There 
were  several  old  gamblers  among  them,  but  the  greater  number 
were  young  ones. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Kingsley,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you. 
You  come  at  a  good  time.  I  am  about  to  expose  a  scoundrel  to 
you." 

"  You  shall  answer  for  this,  sir,"  stammered  Cleveland,  in 
equal  rage  and  confusion. 

"  Answer,  shall  I  ?  By  Jupiter !  but  you  shall  answer  too  ! 
And  you  shall  have  the  privilege  of  a  first  answer,  shall  you  t" 

"  Mr.  Kingsley,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  V9  was  the  de- 
mand of  a  tall,  dark-featured  man,  who  now  made  his  appear- 
ance from  an  inner  room,  and  whom  I  now  learned,  was,  in  fact, 
the  proprietor  of  the  establishment. 

"  Ah  !  Radeliffe —  but  before  another  word  is  wasted  put  your 
fingers  into  the  left  breeches  pocket  of  that  scoundrel  there, 
and  see  what  you  will  find," 

Cleveland  would  have  resisted.  Kingsley  spoke  again  to 
Radcliffe,  and  this  time  in  stern  language,  which  was  evidently 
felt  by  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed. 

"  Radcliffe,  your  own  credit — nay,  safety — will  depend  upon 
your  showing  that  you  have  no  share  in  this  rogue's  practice. 
Search  him,  if  you  would  not  share  his  punishment." 

The  fellow  was  awed,  and  obeyed  instantly.  Himself,  with 
three  others,  grappled  with  the  culprit.  He  resisted  strenuous- 
ly, but  in  vain.  He  was  searched,  and  from  the  pocket  in 
question  three  dice  were  produced. 

"  Very  good,"  said  Kingsley ;  "  now  examine  those  dice, 
gentlemen,  and  see  if  you  can  detect  one  of  my  initials,  the  let- 
ter '  K,'  which  I  scratched  with  a  pin  upon  each  of  them." 

The  examination  was  made,  and  the  letter  was  found,  very 


FALSE    DICE.  225 

small  and  very  faint,  it  is  true,  but  still  legible,  upon  the  ace 
square  of  each  of  the  dice. 

"  Very  good,"  continued  Kingsley ;  "  and  now,  gentlemen, 
with  your  leave — " 

He  opened  his  hand  and  displayed  the  three  dice  with  which 
Cleveland  had  last  thrown. 

"  Here  you  see  the  dice  with  which  this  worthy  gentleman 
hoped  to  empty  my  pockets.  These  are  they  which  he  last 
threw  upon  the  table.  He  counted  handsomely  by  them  !  I 
threw,  just  before  him,  with  those  which  you  have  in  your  hand. 
I  had  contrived  to  mark  them  previously,  this  very  evening,  in 
order  that  I  might  know  them  again.  Why  should  he  put 
them  in  his  pocket,  and  throw  with  these  ?  As  this  question  is 
something  important,  I  propose  to  answer  it  to  your  satisfaction 
as  well  as  my  own ;  and,  for  this  reason,  I  came  here,  as  you 
see,  prepared  to  make  discoveries." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket,  while  he  spoke,  a  small  saddler's 
hammer  and  steel-awl.  Fixing  with  the  sharp  point  of  the  awl 
in  the  ace  spot  of  the  dice,  he  struck  it  a  single  but  sudden 
blow  with  the  hammer,  split  each  of  the  dice  in  turn,  and  dis- 
closed to  the  wondering,  or  seemingly  wondering,  eyes  of  all 
around,  a  little  globe  of  lead  in  each,  inclining  to  the  lowest 
numeral,  and  necessarily  determining  the  roll  of  the  dice  so  as 
to  leave  the  lightest  section  uppermost. 

41  Here,  gentlemen,"  continued  Kingsley,  "  you  see  by  what 
process  I  have  lost  my  money.  But  it  is  not  in  the  dice  alone. 
Look  at  these  cards.  Do  you  note  this  trace  of  the  finger-nail, 
here,  and  there,  and  there — scarcely  to  be  seen  unless  it  is 
shown  to  you,  but  clear  enough  to  the  person  that  made  it,  and 
is  prepared  to  look  for  it.  Radcliffe,  your  fellow,  Philip,  has 
been  concerned  in  this  business.  You  must  dismiss  him,  or 
your  visitors  will  dismiss  you.  Neither  myself  nor  my  friends 
will  visit  you  again — nay,  more,  I  denounce  you  to  the  police. 
Am  I  understood?" 

Radcliffe  assented  without  scruple,  evidently  not  so  anxious 
for  justice  as  for  the  safety  of  his  establishment.  But  it  ap- 
peared that  there  Vfere  others  in  the  room  not  so  well  pleased 
with  the  result.  A  hubbub  now  took  place,  in  which  three  or 
four  fellow;  made  a  rush  upon  Kingsley  —  Cleveland  urging 

10* 


226  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

and  clamoring  from  the  rear,  though  without  betraying  muclk 
real  desire  to  get  into  the  conflict. 

But  the  assailants  had  miscalculated  their  forces.  The 
youngsters  in- the  establishment,  regarding  Kingsley's  develop- 
ment as  serving  the  common  cause,  were  as  soon  at  his  side  as 
myself.  The  scuffle  was  over  in  an  instant.  One  burly  ruffian 
was  prostrated  by  a  blow  from  Kingsley's  club ;  I  had  my  share 
in  the  prostration  of  a  second,  and  some  two  others  took  t.»  their 
heels,  assisted  in  their  progress  by  a  smart  application  from 
every  foot  and  fist  that  happened  to  be  convenient  enough  for 
such  a  service. 

Bnt  Cleveland  alone  remained.  Why  he  had  not  shared  the 
summary  fate  of  the  rest  it  would  be  difficult  to  say,  unless  it 
was  because  he  had  kept  aloof  from  the  active  struggle  to  which 
he  had  egged  them  on.  Perhaps,  too,  a  better  reason — he  was 
reserved  for  some  more  distinguishing  punishment.  Why  he 
had  shown  no  disposition  for  flight  himself,  was  answered  as 
soon  as  Kingsley  laid  down  his  club,  which  he  did  with  a  laugh 
of  exemplary  good-nature  the  moment  he  had  felled  with  it  his 
first  assailant.  The  flight  of  his  allies  left  the  path  open  be- 
tween himself  and  Cleveland,  and,  suddenly  darting  upon  him, 
the  desperate  gambler  aimed  a  blow  at  his  breast  with  a  dirk 
which  he  had  drawn  that  instant  from  his  own.  He  exclaimed 
as  he  struck : — 

"  Here  is  something  that  escaped  your  search.  Take  this  I 
this!" 

Kingsley  was  just  lifting  up  the  cap,  which  he  had  worn  that 
night,  from  the  table  to  his  brows.  Instinctively  he  dashed  it 
into  the  face  of  his  assassin,  and  his  simple  evolution  saved  him. 
The  next  moment  the  fearless  fellow  had  grappled  with  his  en- 
emy, torn  the  weapon  from  his  grasp,  and,  seizing  him  around 
the  body  as  if  he  had  been  an  infant,  moved  with  him  to  an 
open  window  looking  out  upon  a  neighboring  court.  The  victim 
struggled,  yelled  for  succor,  but  before  any  of  us  could  inter- 
pose, the  resolute  and  powerful  man  in  whose  hold  he  writhed 
and  struggled  vainly,  with  the  gripe  of  a  master,  had  thrust  him 
through  the  opening,  his  heels,  in  their  upward  evolutions,  shat- 
tering a  dozen  of  the  panes  as  he  disappeared  from  sight  below. 
We  all  concluded  that  he  was  killed.  We  were  in  an  upper 


FALSE   DICE.  227 

chamber,  which  I  estimated  to  be  twenty  or  thirty  feet  from 
the  ground.  I  was  too  much  shocked  for  speech,  and  rushed  to 
the  window,  expecting  to  behold  the  mangled  and  bloody  corpse 
of  the  miserable  criminal  beneath.  The  laughter  of  Radcliffe 
half  reassured  me. 

"  He  will  not  suffer  much  hurt,"  said  he ;  "  there  is  something 
to  break  his  fall." 

I  looked  down,  and  there  the  unhappy  wretch  was  seen  squat- 
ting and  clinging  to  the  slippery  shingles  of  an  old  stable,  unhurt, 
some  twelve  feet  below  us,  unable  to  reascend,  and  very  unwil- 
ling to  adopt  the  only  alternative  which  the  case  presented — 
that  of  descending  softly  upon  the  rank  bed  of  stable-ordure 
which  the  provident  care  of  the  gardener  had  raised  up  on 
every  hand,  the  reeking  fumes  of  which  were  potent  enough  to 
oxpel  us  very  soon  from  our  place  of  watch  at  the  window. 
Of  the  further  course  of  the  elegant  culprit  we  took  no  heed. 
The  ludicrousness  of  his  predicament  had  the  effect  of  turning 
the  whole  adventure  into  merriment  among  those  who  remained 
in  the  establishment ;  and  availing  ourselves  of  the  clamorous 
mirth  of  the  parties,  we  made  our  escape  from  the  place  "with  a 
feeling,  on  my  part,  of  indescribable  relief. 


CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEAFT. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

HOW  THE   GAME  WAS   PLAYED. 

"  WELL,  we  may  breathe  awhile,"  said  Kingsley,  as  we  found 
ourselves  once  more  in  the  pure  air,  and  under  the  blue  sky  of 
midnight.  "  We  have  got  through  an  ugly  task  with  tolerable 
success.  You  stood  by  me  like  a  man,  Clifford.  I  need  not 
tell  you  how  much  I  thank  you." 

"  I  heartily  rejoice  that  you  are  through  with  it,  Kingsley ; 
but  I  am  not  so  sure  that  we  can  deliberately  approve  of  every- 
thing that  we  may  have  been  required  by  tne  circumstances  of 
the  case  to  do." 

"What!  you  did  not  relish  the  playing]  I  respect  your 
scruples,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  it  must  become  a  habit. 
You  played  to  enable  a  friend  to  get  back  from  a  knave  what 
he  lost  as  a  fool,  and  to  pimish  the  knavery  that  he  could  not 
well  hope  to  reform.  I  do  not  see,  considering  the  amount  of 
possible  good  which  we  have  done,  that  the  evil  is  wholly  in- 
excusable." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  this  heap  of  money  which  I  have  in  my 
bosom — should  you  have  taken  it  ?" 

"  And  why  not  ?     Whose  should  it  be,  if  not  mine  ?" 

"  You  took  with  you  but  one  hundred  dollars.  I  should  say 
you  have  more  than  a  thousand  here." 

"  I  trust  I  have,"  said  he  coolly.  "  What  of  that  ?  I  won 
it  fairly,  and  he  played  fairly,  until  the  last  moment  when 
everything  was  at  stake.  His  false  dice  were  then  called  in — 
and  would  you  have  me  yield  to  his  roguery  what  had  been 
the  fruits  of  a  fair  conflict  1  No !  no !  friend  of  mine  !  no !  no  I 
all  these  things  did  I  consider  well  before  I  took  you  with  me 


HOI     :£S  GAME   WAS  PLAYED.  229 

I  •  a\;e  been  meditating  this  business  for  a  week,  from 
the  mo1-  „_  t  when  a  friendly  fellow  hinted  to  me  that  I  was  the 
victim  of  knavery." 

"  But  that  wallet  of  money,  Kingsley  ?  You  assured  me  that 
you  were  pennyless." 

"Ah  !  that  wallet  bedevilled  Mr.  Latour  Cleveland,  as  it 
seems  to  have  bedevilled  you.  There,  by  the  starlight,  look  at 
the  contents  of  this  precious  wallet,  and  see  how  much  further 
your  eyes  can  pierce  into  the  mystery  of  my  proceedings/ 

He  handed  me  the  wallet,  which  I  opened.  To  my  grea* 
surprise,  I  found  it  stuffed  with  old  shreds  of  newspaper,  bit* 
of  rag,  even  cotton,  but  not  a  cent  of  money. 

"  There  !  ars  you  satisfied  ?  You  shall  have  that  wallet, 
with  all  its  precious  contents,  as  a  keepsake  from  me.  It  will 
remind  you  of  a  strange  scene.  It  will  have  a  history  for  you 
when  you  are  old,  which  you  will  tell  with  a  chuckle  to  your 
children." 

"  Children !"  I  involuntarily  murmured,  while  my  voic* 
trembled,  and  a  tear  started  to  my  eye.  That  one  word  recal- 
led me  back,  at  once,  to  home,  to  my  particular  woes — to  all 
tli at  I  could  have  wished  banished  for  ever,  even  in  the  un- 
wholesome stews  and  steams  of  a  gaming-house.  But  Kings- 
lay  did  not  suffer  me  to  muse  over  my  own  afflictions.  He  did 
not  seem  to  hear  the  murmuring  exclamation  of  my  lips.  He 
continued : — 

"  I  have  no  mysteries  from  you,  and  you  need,  as  well  as  de- 
serve, an  explanation.  All  shall  be  made  clear  to  you.  The 
reason  of  this  wallet,  and  another  matter  which  staggered  you 
quite  as  much — my  audacious  bet  of  a  cool  hundred — your 
own  disconsolate  hundred — as  a  first  stake!  I  have  no  doubt 
you  thought  me  mad  when  you  heard  me." 

I  confessed  as  much.     He  laughed. 

"  As  I  tell  you,  I  had  studied  my  game  beforehand,  even  in 
its  smallest  details.  By  this  time,  I  knew  something  of  the 
play  of  most  gamblers,  and  of  Mr.  Latour  Cleveland,  in  partic- 
ular. These  people  do  not  risk  themselves  for  trifles.  They 
play  fairly  enough  when  the  temptation  is  small.  They  cheat 
only  when  the  issues  are  great.  I  am  speaking  now  of  game- 
sters on  the  big  figure,  not  of  the  Betty  chapmen  who  pule  over 


230  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIM3  JlEAST. 

their  pennies  and  watch  the  exit  of  a  Mexican,  with  It :  feelinge 
of  one  who  sees  the  last  wave  of  a  friend's  handksreliisf  gem* 
upon  the  high  seas.  My  big  wallet  and  my  hundred  collar  bet 
were  parts  of  the  same  system.  The  heavy  stake  at  the  begin- 
ning led  to  the  inference  that  I  had  corresponding  resources 
My  big  wallet  lying  by  me,  conveniently  and  ostentatiously, 
confirmed  this  impression.  The  cunning  gambler  was  willing 
that  I  should  win  awhile.  His  policy  was  to  encourage  me ;  to 
persuade  me  on  and  on,  by  gradual  stimulants,  till  all  was  at 
stake.  Well !  I  knew  this.  All  was  at  stake  finally,  and  I  had 
then  to  call  into  requisition  all  the  moral  strength  of  which  1 
was  capable,  so  that  eye  and  lip  and  temper  should  not  fail  me 
at  those  moments  when  I  would  need  the  address  and  agency 
of  all. 

"  The  task  has  been  an  irksome  one ;  the  trial  absolutely 
painful.  But  I  should  have  been  ashamed,  once  commencing 
the  undertaking,  not  to  have  succeeded.  He,  too,  was  not  im- 
pregnable. I  found  out  his  particular  weakness.  He  was  a 
vain  man ;  vain  of  his  bearing,  which  he  deemed  aristocratic  •> 
his  person,  which  he  considered  very  fine.  I  played  with  these 
vanities.  Failing  to  excite  him  on  the  subject  of  the  game,  I 
made  himself  my  subject.  I  chattered  with  him  freely  j  so  as 
to  prompt  him  to  fancy  that  I  was  praising  his  style,  air,  appear- 
ance ;  anon,  by  some  queer  jibe,  making  him  half  suspicious 
that  I  was  quizzing  him.  My  frequent  laughter,  judiciously 
disposed,  helped  this  effect ;  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  I  succeed- 
ed. He  became  nervous,  and  was  excited,  though  you  may  not 
have  seen  it.  I  saw  it  in  the  change  of  his  complexion,  which 
became  suddenly  quite  bilious.  I  found,  too,  that  he  could 
only  speak  with  some  effort,  when,  if  you"  remember,  before 
we  began  to  play,  his  tongue,  though  deliberate,  worked  pat. 
enough.  I  felt  my  power  over  him  momently  increase ;  and  I 
sometimes  won  where  he  did  not  wish  it.  I  do  verily  believe 
that  he  ceased  to  see  the  very  marks  which  he  himself  had 
made  upon  the  cards.  Nervous  agitation,  on  moct  persons,  pro- 
duces a  degree  of  blindness  quite  as  certainly  as  it  affects  the 
speech.  Well,  you  saw  the  condition  of  our  funds  when  you 
re-appeared.  I  Jiad  determined  to  bring  the  business  to  a  close. 
I  had  marked  the  dice,  actually  before  his  face,  while  we  took 


HOW  THE  GAME   WAS  PLAYED.  231 

a  spell  of  rest  over  a  bottle  of  porter.  I  had  scratched  them 
quietly  with  a  pin  which  I  carried  in  my  sleeve  for  that  pur- 
pose, while  he  busied  himself  with  a  fidgety  shuffling  of  the 
cards.  My  leg,  thrown  over  one  angle  of  the  table,  partly  cov- 
ered my  operations,  and  I  worked  upon  the  dice  in  my  lap.  You 
may  suppose  the  etching  was  bad  enough,  doing  precious  little 
credit  to  the  art  of  engraving  in  our  country.  But  the  thing 
was  thoroughly  done,  for  I  had  worked  myself  into  a  rigorous 
sort  of  philosophic  desperation  which  made  me  as  cool  as  a  cu- 
cumber. To  seem  to  empty  the  contents  of  the  wallet  into  my 
lap  was  my  next  object,  and  this  I  succeeded  in,  without  his 
suspecting  that  my  movement  was  a  sham  only.  The  purse 
thus  made  up,  I  emphatically  told  him  was  all  I  had — this  was 
the  truth — and  then  came  the  crisis.  His  trick  was  to  be  em- 
ployed now  or  never.  It  was  employed,  but  he  had  become  so 
nervous,  that  I  caught  a  sufficient  glimpse  of  his  proceedings.  I 
saw  the  slight  o'hand  movement  which  he  attempted,  and — you 
know  the  rest.  I  regard  the  money  as  honestly  mine — so  far 
as  good  morals  may  recognise  the  honesty  of  getting  money 
by  gambling ;  —  and  thinking  so,  my  dear  Clifford,  I  have  no 
scruple  in  begging  you  to  share  it  with  me.  It  is  only  fit 
that  you,  who  furnished  all  the  capital — you  see  I  say 
nothing  of  the  wallet  which  should,  however,  be  priceless 
in  our  eyes — should  derive  at  least  a  moiety  of  the  profit. 
It  is  quite  as  much  yours  as  mine.  I  beg  you  so  to  con- 
sider it." 

I  need  not  say,  however,  that  I  positively  refused  to  accept 
this  offer.  I  would  take  nothing  but  the  hundred  which  I  had 
lent  him,  and  placed  the  handkerchief  with  all  its  contents  into 
his  hands. 

"  And  now,  Clifford,  I  must  leave  you.  You  have  yet  to 
learn  another  of  my  secrets.  I  take  the  rail-car  at  day- 
light in  the  morning.  I  am  off  for  Alabama;  and  con- 
sidermg  my  Texan  and  Mexican  projects,  I  leave  you,  perhaps, 
for  ever." 

"  SO  800^  V9 

"Yes,  everything  is  ready.  There  need  be  no  delay.  I 
have  no  wife  nor  children  to  cumber  me.  My  trunks  are  al- 
ready packed;  my  resolve  made;  my  last  business  transacted 


232  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

I  have  some  lands  in  Alabama  which  I  mean  to  sell.  This 
done,  I  am  off  for  the  great  field  of  performance,  south  and 
southwest.  You  shall  hear  of  me,  perhaps  may  wish  to  hear 
from  me.  Here  is  my  address,  meanwhile,  in  Alabama. 
I  shall  advise  you  of  my  further  progress,  and  shall  esteem 
highly  a  friendly  scrawl  from  you.  If  you  write,  do  not  fail  to 
tell  me  what  you  may  hear  of  Mr.  Latour  Cleveland,  and  how 
he  got  down  from  the  muck-heap.  Write  me  all  about  it,  Clif- 
ford, and  whatever  else  you  can  about  our  fools  and  knaves, 
for  though  I  leave  them  without  a  tear,  yet,  d — n  'em,  I  keep 
'em  in  my  memory,  if  it's  only  for  the  sake  of  the  old  city  whom 
they  bedevil." 

Enough  of  our  dialogue  that  night.  Kingsley  was  a  fellow 
of  every  excellent  and  some  very  noble  qualities.  We  did  not 
sympathize  in  sundry  respects,  but  I  parted  from  him  with  re- 
gret; not  altogether  satisfied,  however,  that  there  were  not 
some  defects  in  that  reasoning  by  which  he  justified  our  pro- 
ceedings with  the  gamblers.  I  turned  from  him  with  a  sad, 
sick  heart.  In  his  absence  the  whole  feeling  of  my  domestic 
doubts  and  difficulties  rushed  back  upon  me  freshly  and  with 
redoubled  force. 

"  Children !"  I  murmured  mournfully,  as  I  recalled  one  of 
his  remarks ;  "  children !  children !  these,  indeed,  were  bles- 
sings ;  but  if  we  only  had  love,  truth,  peace.  If  that  damning 
doubt  were  not  there !  —  that  wild  fear,  that  fatal,  soul-petrify- 
ing suspicion !" 

I  groaned  audibly  as  I  traversed  the  streets,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  pavements  groaned  hollowly  in  answer  beneath  my  hur- 
rying footsteps.  In  a  moment  more  I  had  absolutely  forgotten 
the  recent  strife,  the  strange  scene,  the  accents  of  my  friend ; 
all  but  that  one. 

"  Children !  children !  These  might  bind  her  to  me ;  might 
secure  her  erring  affections ;  might  win  her  to  love  the  father, 
when  he  himself  might  possess  no  other  power  to  tempt  her  to 
love.  Ah  !  why  has  Providence  denied  me  the  blessing  of  a 

child  r 

Alas!  it  was  not  probable  that  Julia  shciM  ever  have 
children.  This  was  the  conviction  of  our  piysiciin.  Her 
health  and  constitution  seemed  to  forbid  the  hope;  and  the 


HOW  THE  GAME  WAS  PLAYED.  233 

gloomy  despair  under  which  I  suffered  was  increased  by  this 
reflection.  Yet,  even  at  that  moment,  while  thus  I  mused  and 
murmured,  my  poor  wife  had  heen  unexpectedly  and  prema- 
turely delivered  of  an  infant  son — a  tiny  creature,  in  whom 
life  was  but  a  passing  gleam,  as  of  the  imperfect  moonlight, 
and  of  whom  death  took  possession  in  the  very  instant  of  its 
birth. 


234-  CONtf£SSIOX.  OR  THE  BLIND  HflABT. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

SUDDEN   LESSON   AND   NEW   SUSPICIONS. 

WHILE  I  had  been  wasting  the  precious  hours  of  midnight 
in  a  gaming-house,  my  poor  Julia  had  undergone  the  peculiar 
pangs  of  a  mother !  While  I  had  been  reproaching  her  in  my 
secret  soul  for  a  want  of  ardency  and  attachment,  she  had  been 
giving  me  the  highest  proof  that  she  possessed  the  warmest. 
These  revelations,  however,  were  to  reach  me  slowly ;  and 
then,  like  those  of  Cassandra,  they  were  destined  to  encounter 
disbelief. 

Leaving  Kingsley,  I  turned  into  the  street  where  my  wife's 
mother  lived.  But  the  house  was  shut  up — the  company  gone. 
I  had  not  been  heedful  of  the  progress  of  the  hours.  I  looked 
up  at  the  tall,  white,  and  graceful  steeple  of  our  ancient  church, 
which  towered  in  serene  majesty  above  us ;  but,  in  the  imper- 
fect light  I  failed  to  read  the  letters  upon  the  dial-plate.  At 
that  moment  its  solemn  chimes  pealed  forth  the  hour,  as  if 
especially  in  answer  to  my  quest.  How  such  sounds  speak  to 
the  very  soul  at  midnight!  They  seem  the  voice  from  Time 
himself,  informing,  not  man  alone,  but  Eternity,  of  his  progress 
to  that  lone  night,  in  which  his  minutes,  hours,  days,  and  years, 
are  equally  to  be  swallowed  up  and  forgotten. 

Sweet  had  been  those  bells  to  me  in  boyhood.  Sad  were 
they  to  me  now.  I  had  heard  them  ring  forth  merry  peals  on 
the  holydays  of  the  nation ;  and  peals  on  the  day  of  national 
mourning;  startling  and  terrifying  peals  in  the  hour  of  mid- 
night danger  and  alarm;  but  never  till  then  had  they  spoken 
with  such  deep  and  searching  earnestness  to  the  most  hidden 
places  of  ray  soul.  That  'one,  two,  three,  four,'  which  they 


SUDDEN  LESSON  AND  NEW  SUSPICIONS.  235 

then  struck,  as  they  severally  pronounced  the  thrilling  mono- 
tones, seemed  to  convey  the  burden  of  four  impressive  acts  in 
a  yet  unfinished  tragedy.  My  heart  heat  with  a  feeling  of 
anxiety,  such  as  overcomes  us,  when  we  look  for  the  curtain 
to  rise  which  is  to  unfold  the  mysterious  progress  of  the 
catastrophe. 

T  hat  fifth  act  of  mine !  what  was  it  to  he  ?  Involuntarily 
my  lips  uttered  the  name  of  William  Edgerton !  I  started  as 
if  I  had  trodden  upon  a  viper.  The  denouement  of  the  drama 
at  once  grew  up  before  my  eyes.  I  felt  the  dagger  in  my 
grasp ;  I  actually  drew  it  from  my  bosom.  I  saw  the  victim 
before  me — a  smile  upon  his  lips — a  fire  in  his  glance — ail 
ardor,  an  intelligence,  that  looked  like  exulting  passion  ;  and  my 
own  eyes  grew  dim.  I  was  blinded ;  but,  even  in  the  dark- 
ness, I  struck  with  fatal  precision.  I  felt  the  resistance,  I 
heard  the  groan  and  the  falling  body ;  and  my  hair  rose,  with 
a  cold,  moist  life  of  its  own,  upon  my  clammy  and  shrinking 
temples. 

I  recovered  from  the  delusion.  My  dagger  had  been  piercing 
the  empty  air ;  but  the  feeling  and  the  horror  in  my  soul  were 
not  less  real  because  the  deed  had  been  one  of  fancy  only, 
The  foregone  conclusion  was  in  my  mind,  and  I  well  knew  that 
fate  would  yet  bring  the  victim  to  the  altar. 

I  know  not  how  I  reached  my  dwelling,  but  when  there  I 
was  soon  brought  to  a  sober  condition  of  the  senses.  I  found 
everything  in  commotion.  Mrs.  Delaney,  late  Clifford,  was 
there,  busy  in  my  wife's  chamber,  while  her  husband,  surly  with 
such  an  interruption  to  his  domestic  felicity,  even  at  the  thresh- 
old, was  below,  kicking  his  heels  in  solemn  disquietude  in  the 
parlor.  The  servants  had  been  despatched  to  bring  her  and  to 
seek  me,  in  the  first  moments  of  my  wife's  danger.  She  had 
consciousness  enough  for  that,  and  Mrs.  Delaney  had  summoned 
the  physician.  He  too  —  the  excellent  old  man,  who  had  as- 
sisted us  in  our  clandestine  marriage — he  too  was  there;  sad, 
troubled,  and  regarding  me  with  looks  of  apprehension  and 
rebuke  which  seemed  to  ask  why  I  was  abroad  at  that  late 
hour,  leaving  my  wife  under  such  circumstances.  I  could  not 
meet  his  glance  with  a  manly  eye.  They  brought  me  the  dead 
infant — poor  atom  of  mortality — no  longer  mortal;  but  5 


236  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

turned  away  from  the  spectacle.  I  dared  not  look  upon  it.  It 
was  the  form  of  a  perished  hope,  ended  in  a  dream !  And  such 
a  dream  !  The  physician  gave  me  a  brief  explanation  of  the 
condition  of  things. 

"  Your  wife  is  very  ill.  It  is  difficult  to  say  what  will  hap- 
pen. Make  up  your  mind  for  the  worst.  She  has  fever — has 
been  delirious.  But  she  sleeps  now  under  the  effect  of  some 
medicine  I  have  given  her.  She  will  not  sleep  long ;  and  every- 
thing will  depend  upon  her  wakening.  She  must  be  kept  very 
quiet." 

I  asked  if  he  could  conjecture  what  should  bring  about  such 
an  event.  "  Though  delicate,  Julia  was  not  out  of  health.  She 
had  been  well  during  the  evening  when  I  left  her." 

"  You  have  left  her  long.  This  is  a  late  hour,  Mr.  Clifford, 
for  a  young  husband  to  be  out.  Notning  but  matter  of  neces- 
sity could  excuse " 

I  interrupted  him  with  some  gravity  :— 

"  Suppose  then  it  was  a  matter  of  necessity — of  seeming 
necessity,  at  least." 

He  observed  my  emotion. 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  me.  I  assisted  your  dear  wife  into 
the  world,  Clifford.  I  would  not  see  her  hurried  out  of  it.  She 
is  like  a  child  of  my  own ;  I  feel  for  her  as  such." 

I  said  something  apologetic,  I  know  not  what,  and  renewed 
my  question. 

"She  has  been  alarmed  or  excited,  perhaps;  possibly  has 
fallen  while  ascending  the  stair.  A  very  slight  accident  will 
sometimes  suffice  to  produce  such  a  result  with  a  constitution 
such  as  hers.  She  needs  great  watchfulness,  Clifford ;  close 
attention,  much  solicitude.  She  needs  and  deserves  it,  Clif- 
ford." 

I  saw  that  the  old  man  suspected  me  of  indifference  and 
neglect.  Alas !  whatever  might  be  my  faults  in  reference  to 
my  wife,  indifference  was  not  among  them.  What  he  had  said, 
however,  smote  me  to  the  heart.  I  felt  like  a  culprit.  I  dared 
not  meet  his  eye  when,  at  daylight,  he  took  his  departure, 
promising  to  return  in  a  few  hours. 

My  excellent  mother-in-law  was  more  capable  and  copious  in 
her  details.  From  her  I  learned  that  Julia,  though  anxious  to 


SUDDEN  LESSON  AND  NEW  SUSPICIONS.  237 

depart  for  some  time  before,  had  waited  for  my  return  until  the 
last  of  her  guests  were  about  to  retire.  Among  these  happened 
to  be  Mr.  William  Edgerton !" 

"  He  offered  his  carriage,  but  Julia  put  off  accepting  for  a 
long  time,  saying  you  would  soon  return.  But  at  last  he  press- 
ed her  so,  and  seeing  everybody  else  gone,  she  concluded  to 
go,  and  Mr.  Delaney  helped  her  into  the  carriage,  and  Mr. 
Edgerton  got  in  too,  to  see  her  home ;  and  off  they  drove,  and 
it  was  not  an  hour  after,  when  Becky  (the  servant-girl)  came 
to  rout  us  up,  saying  that  her  mistress  was  dying.  I  hurried 
on  my  clothes,  and  Delaney — dear  good  man — he  was  just 
as  quick;  and  off  we  came,  and  sure  enough,  we  found  her  in 
a  bad  way,  and  nobody  with  her  but  the  servants ;  and  I  sent 
off  after  you,  and  after  the  doctor ;  and  he  just  came  in  time 
to  help  her ;  but  she  went  on  wofully ;  was  very  lightheaded ; 
talked  a  great  deal  about  you ;  and  about  Mr.  Edgerton ;  I 
suppose  because  he  had  just  been  seeing  her  home ;  but  didn't 
seem  to  know  and  doesn't  know  to  this  moment  what  has  hap 
pened  to  her." 

I  have  shortened  very  considerably  the  long  story  which 
Mrs.  Delaney  made  of  it.  Rambling  as  it  was — full  of  non- 
sense— with  constant  references  to  her  "  dear  good  man,"  and 
her  party,  the  company,  herself,  her  fashion,  and  frivolities — 
there  was  yet  something  to  sting  and  trouble  me  at  the  core  of 
her  narration.  Edgerton  and  my  wife  linger  to  the  last — 
Edgerton  rides  home  with  her — he  and  she  in  the  carriage, 
alone,  at  midnight; — and  then  this  catastrophe,  which  the 
doctor  thought  was  a  natural  consequence  of  some  excitement 
or  alarm. 

These  facts  wrought  like  madness  in  my  brain.  Then, 
too,  in  her  delirium  she  raves  of  him!  Is  not  that  signifi 
cant?  True,  it  comes  from  the  lips  of  that  malicious  oil 
woman!  she,  who  had  already  hinted  to  me  that  my  wife — 
her  daughter — was  likely  to  be  as  faithless  to  me  as  she 
had  been  to  herself.  Still,  it  is  significant,  even  if  it  be 
only  the  invention  of  this  old  woman.  It  showed  what  she 
conjectured — what  she  thought  to  be  a  natural  result  of  these 
practices  which  had  prompted  her  suspicions  as  well  as  mj 
own. 


238  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

How  hot  was  the  iron-pressure  upon  rny  brain — how  keen 
and  scorching  was  that  fiery  arrow  in  my  soul,  when  I  took 
my  place  of  watch  beside  the  unconscious  form  of  my  wife, 
God  alone  can  know.  If  I  am  criminal  —  if  I  have  erred  with 
wildest  error — surely  I  have  struggled  with  deepest  misery. 
I  have  been  misled  by  wo,  not  temptation  !  Sore  has  been  my 
struggle,  sore  my  suffering,  even  in  the  moment  of  my  greatest 
fault  and  folly.  Sore  !  — how  sore  f 


STILL  THE  CLOUD.  239 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

STILL   THE   CLOUD. 

FOR  three  days  and  nights  did  I  watch  beside  the  sick  bed 
of  my  wife.  In  all  this  time  her  fate  continued  doubtful.  I 
doubt  if  any  anxiety  or  attention  could  have  exceeded  mine ; 
as  it  was  clear  to  myself  that,  in  spite  of  jealousy  and  suspicion, 
my  love  for  her  remained  without  diminution.  Yet  this  watch 
was  not  maintained  without  some  trials  far  more  severe  and 
searching  than  those  which  it  produced  upon  the  body.  Her 
mind,  wandering  and  purposeless,  yet  spoke  to  mine,  and  re- 
newed all  its  racking  doubts,  and  exaggerated  all  its  nameless 
fears.  Her  veins  burned  with  fever.  She  was  fitfully  delirious. 
Words  fell  from  her  at  spasmodic  moments  —  strange,  incoherent 
words,  but  all  full  of  meaning  in  my  ears.  I  sat  beside  the  bed 
on  one  hand,  while,  on  one  occasion,  her  mother  occupied  a 
seat  upon  that  opposite.  The  eyes  of  my  wife  opened  upon 
both  of  us — turned  from  me,  convulsively,  with  an  expression, 
as  I  thought,  of  disgust,  then  closed — while  her  lips,  taking  up 
their  language,  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  threats  and  reproaches. 

I  can  not  repeat  her  words.  They  rang  in  my  ears,  under- 
stood, indeed,  but  so  wildly  and  thrillingly,  that  I  should  find 
it  a  vain  task  to  endeavor  to  remember  them.  She  spoke  of 
persecution,  annoyance,  beyond  propriety,  beyond  her  powers 
of  endurance.  She  threatened  me — for  I  assumed  myself  to 
be  the  object  of  her  denunciation  —  with  the  wrath  of  some  one 
capable  to  punish — nay,  to  rescue  her,  if  need  be,  by  violence, 
from  the  clutches  of  her  tyrant.  Then  followed  another  change 
in  her  course  of  speech.  She  no  longer  threatened  or  de- 
nounced. She  derided.  Words  of  bitter  scorn  and  loathing 
contempt  issued  from  those  bright,  red,  burning,  and  always 


240  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

beautiful  lips,  wliicli  I  Lad  never  supp3sed  could  have  given 
forth  such  utterance,  even  if  her  spirit  could  have  been  sup- 
posed capable  of  conceiving  it.  Keen  was  the  irony  which  she 
expressed — irony,  which  so  well  applied  to  my  demerits  in  one 
great  respect,  that  I  could  not  help  making  the  personal  ap- 
plication. 

"  How  manly  and  generous,"  she  proceeded,  "was  this  sort 
of  persecution  of  one  so  unprotected,  so  dependent,  so  placed, 
that  she  must  even  be  silent,  and  endure  without  speech  'or 
complaint,  in  the  dread  of  dangers  which,  however,  would  not 
light  upon  her  head.  Oh,  brave  as  generous  !"  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  burst  of  tremendous  delirium,  terminating  in  a  shriek ; 
"  oh,  brave  as  generous  !  —  scarcely  lion-like,  however,  for  the 
noble  beast  rushes  upon  his  victim.  He  does  not  prowl,  and 
skulk,  and  sneak,  watching,  cat-like,  crouching  and  base,  in 
stealth  and  darkness.  Very  noble,  but  mousing  spirit !  Be- 
ware !  Do  I  not  know  you  now !  Fear  you  not  that  I  will 
show  your  baseness,  and  declare  the  truth,  and  guide  other 
eyes  to  your  stealthy  practice  ?  Beware !  Do  not  drive  me 
into  madness!" 

Thus  she  raved.  My  conscience  applied  these  stinging 
words  of  scorn,  which  seemed  particularly  fitted  to  the  mean 
suspicious  watch  which  I  had  kept  upon  her.  I  could  have  no 
thought  that  they  were  meant  for  any  other  ears  than  my  own, 
and  the  crimson  flush  upon  my  cheeks  was  the  involuntary  ac- 
knowledgment which  my  soul  made  of  the  demerits  of  my  un- 
manly conduct.  I  fancied  that  Julia  had  detected  my  espionage, 
and  that  her  language  had  this  object  in  reference  only.  But 
there  were  other  words ;  and,  passing  with  unexpected  transi- 
tion from  the  language  of  dislike  and  scorn,  she  now  indulged 
in  that  of  love — language  timidly  suggestive  of  love,  as  if  its 
utterance  were  restrained  by  bashfulness,  as  if  it  dreaded  to  be 
heard.  Then  a  deep  sigh  followed,  as  if  from  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  succeeded  by  convulsive  sobs,  at  last  ending  in  a  gushing 
flood  of  tears. 

For  the  space  of  half  an  hour  I  had  been  an  attentive  but 
suffering  listener  to  this  wild  raving.  My  pangs  followed  every 
sentence  from  her  lips,  believing,  as  I  did,  that  they  were  re- 
proachful of  myself,  and  associated  with  a  now  unrestrained 


STILL  THE  CLOUD.  241 

f  ££.:683ion  of  passion  for  another.  Gradually  I  had  ceased,  in 
the  deep  interest  which  I  felt,  to  be  conscious  that  Mrc.  Dela- 
ney  TV  as  resent.  I  leaned  across  the  wv da ;  1  bent  my  ear 
down  lov/y,rd  the  lips  of  the  speaker,  eager  to  drink  up  every 
feeble  sound  which  might  help  to  elucidate  my  doubts,  and 
subdue  or  confirm  my  suspicions.  Then,  as  the  accumulating 
conviction  fo,:  ,ed  itself,  embodied  and  sharp,  like  a  knife,  into 
my  soul,  I  groaned  aloud,  and  my  teeth  were  gnashed  together 
in  the  bitterness  of  my  emotion !  In  that  moment  I  caught 
the  keen  gray  eyes  of  my  mother-in-law  fixed  upon  me,  with  a 
jibing  expression,  vhiah  BDoke  volumes  of  mockery.  They 
seemed  to  say,  "  Ah !  you  have  it  now !  The  truth  is  forced 
apon  you  at  last !  You  can  parry  it  ^o  longer.  I  see  the  iron 
in  your  soul.  I  behold  and  enjoy  your  contortions !" 

Fiend  language  !  She  was  something  of  a  fiend  !  I  started 
from  the  bedside,  and  just  then  a  flood  of  tears  came  to  the  re- 
lief of  my  ^ife,  and  lessened  the  excitement  of  her  brain. 
The  tears  relieved  her.  The  paroxysm  passed  away.  She 
turned  her  eyes  upon  me,  and  closed  them  involuntarily,  while 
a  deep  crimson  tint  passed  over  hei5  cheek,  a  blush,  whick 
seemed  to  me  to  confirm  substantially  the  tenor  of  that  lan- 
guage in  which,  while  del'rious,  she  had  so  constantly  indulged. 
It  did  not  lessen  the  seeming  shame  and  dislike  which  her 
countenance  appeared  at  once  to  embody,  that  a  soft  sweet 
smile  was  upon  her  lips  at  the  same  moment,  and  she  extended 
to  me  her  hand  with  an  air  of  confidence  which  staggered  and 
surprised  me. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  husband  ?  And  you  here,  mother? 
Have  I  been  sick  1  Can  it  be  ?" 

"  Hush  !"  said  the  mother.  "  You  have  been  sick  ever  since 
the  night  of  my  marriage." 

"  Ah !"  she  exclaimed  with  an  air  of  anxiety  and  pain,  while 
pressing  her  hand  upon  her  eyes,  "  Ah !  that  night !" 

A  shudder  shook  her  frame  as  she  uttered  this  simple  and 
short  sentei:  e.  Simple  and  short  as  it  was,  it  seemed  to  possess 
a  strange  signification.  That  it  was  associated  in  her  mind 
with  some  circumstances  of  peculiar  import,  was  sufficiently 
obvious.  What  were  these  circumstances  ?  Ah !  that  ques- 
tion !  I  ran  over  in  my  thought,  in  a  single  instant,  all  that 

11 


242 

array  of  events,  on  that,  fatal  night,  which  cocJcL  ^.7  &ny  pos- 
sibility ^stress  me,  and  confirm  my  suspicLns.  That,  waltz 
with  Edgerton —  that  long  conference  between  them — that 
lonely  ride  together  from  the  home  of  Mrs.  Delaney,  in  a  close 
carnage  —  and  the  subsequent  disaster — her  unconscious  rav- 
ings, and  the  strong,  strange  language  which  she  employed, 
clearly  full  of  meaning  as  it  was,  but  in  which  I  could  discover 
one  meaning  only !  all  these  topics  of  doubt  and  agitation  pas- 
sed through  my  brain  in  consecutive  order,  and  with  a  compact 
arrangement  which  seemed  as  conclusive  as  any  final  issue.  I 
said  nothing ;  but  what  I  might  have  said>  was  written  in  my 
face.  Julia  regarded  me  with  a  gaze  of  painful  anxiety.  What 
she  read  in  my  looks  must  have  been  troublously  impressive. 
Her  cheeks  grew  patar  as  she  looked.  Her  eyes  wandered 
froni  me  vacantly,  and  I  could  see  her  thin  soft  lips  quivering 
faintly  like  rose-leaves  which  an  envious  breeze  has  half  sepa- 
rated from  the  parent-flower.  Mrs.  Delaney  watched  our 
mutual  faces,  and  I  left  the  room  to  avoid  her  scrutiny.  I  only 
re-entered  it  with  the  physician.  He  administered  medicine  to 
my  wife. 

"  She  will  do  very  well  now,  I  think,"  he  said  to  ine  when 
leaving  the  house ;  "  but  she  requires  to  be  treated  very  tender- 
ly. All  causes  of  excitement  must  be  kept  from  her.  She 
aeeds  soothing,  great  care,  watchful  anxiety.  Clifford,  above 
all,  you  should  leave  her  as  little  as  possible.  This  old  woman, 
her  mother,  is  no  fit  companion  for  her — scarcely  a  pleasant 
one.  I  do  not  mean  to  reproach  you ;  ascribe  what  I  say  to  a 
real  desire  to  serve  and  make  you  happy  ;  but  let  me  tell  you 
that  Mrs.  Delaney  has  intimated  to  me  that  you  neglect  your 
wife,  that  you  leave  her  very  much  at  night :  and  she  farther 
intimates,  what  I  feel  assured  can  not  well  be  the  case,  that  you 
have  fallen  into  other  and  much  more  evil  habits." 

"The  hag!" 

"  She  is  all  that,  and  loves  you  no  better  now  than  before. 
Still,  it  is  well  to  deprive  such  people  of  their  scandal-monger- 
ing,  of  the  meat  for  it  at  least.  I  trust,  Clifford,  for  your 
own  sake,  that  you  were  absent  of  necessity  on  Wednesday 
night." 

"  It  will  be  enough  for  me  to  think  so,  sir,"  was  my  reply. 


STILL  THE  CLOUD.  243 

"  Surely,  if  you  do  think  so  ;  but  I  am  too  old  a  man-,  and  too 
old  a  friend  of  your  own  and  wife's  family,  to  justify  you  in 
taking  exception  to  what  I  say.  I  hope  you  do  not  neglect 
this  dear  child,  for  she  is  one  too  sweet,  too  good,  too  gentle, 
Clifford,  to  be  subjected  to  hard  usage  and  neglect.  I  think 
her  one  of  earth's  angels — a  meek  creature,  who  would  never 
think  or  do  wrong,  but  would  rather  suffer  than  complain.  I 
sincerely  hope,  for  your  own  sake,  as  well  as  hers,  that  you 
truly  estimate  her  worth." 

I  could  not  answer  the  good  old  man,  though  I  was  angry 
with  him.  My  conscience  deprived  me  of  the  just  power  to 
give  utterance  to  my  anger.  I  was  silent,  and  he  forbore  any 
further  reference  to  the  subject.  Shortly  after  he  took  his  leave, 
and  I  re-ascended  the  stairs.  Wearing  slippers,  I  made  little 
noise,  and  at  the  door  of  my  wife's  chamber  I  caught  a  sentence 
from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Delaney,  which  made  me  forget  everything 
that  the  doctor  had  been  saying. 

"  But  Julia,  there  must  have  been  some  accident — something 
must  have  happened.  Did  your  foot  slip  ?  perhaps,  in  getting 

out  of  the  carriage,  or  in  going  up  stairs,  or -.  There  must 

have  been  something  to  frighten  you,  or  hurt  you.  What 
was  it  ]" 

I  paused ;  my  heart  rose  like  a  swelling,  struggling  mass  in 
the  gorge  of  my  throat.  I  listened  for  the  reply.  A  deep  sigh 
followed ;  and  then  I  heard  a  reluctant,  faint  utterance  of  the 
single  word,  "  Nothing !" 

"  Nothing  ?"  repeated  the  old  lady.  "  Surely,  Julia,  there 
was  something.  Recollect  yourself.  You  know  you  rode  home 
with  Mr.  Edgerton.  It  was  past  one  o'clock " 

"  No  more — no  more,  mother.  There  was  nothing — nothing 
that  I  recollect.  I  know  nothing  of  what  happened.  Hardly 
know  where  I  am  now." 

I  felt  a  momentary  pang  that  T  had  lingered  at  the  entrance. 
Besides,  there  was  no  possibility  that  she  would  have  revealed 
anything  to  the  inquisitive  old  woman.  Perhaps,  had  this 
been  probable,  I  should  not  have  felt  the  scruple  and  the  pang. 
The  very  questions  of  Mrs.  Delaney  were  as  fully  productive 
of  evil  in  my  mind,  as  if  Julia  had  answered  decisively  on  every 
topic.  I  entered  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Delaney,  after  some  little 


244  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

lingering,  took  her  departure,  with  a  promise  to  return  agaic 
soon.  I  paced  the  chamber  with  eyes  bent  upon  the  floor. 

"Come  to  me,  Edward — come  sit  beside  me."  Such  were 
the  gentle  words  of  entreaty  which  my  wife  addressed  to  me. 
Gentle  words,  and  so  spoken  —  so  sweetly,  so  frankly,  as  if 
from  the  very  sacredest  chamber  of  her  heart.  Could  it  be 
that  guilt  also  harbored  in  that  very  heart  —  that  it  was  the 
language  of  cunning  on  her  lips — the  cunning  of  the  serpent? 
Ah !  how  can  we  think  that  with  serpent-like  cunning,  there 
should  be  dove-like  guilelessness  ?  My  soul  revolted  at  the 
idea.  The  sounds  of  the  poor  girl's  voice  sounded  like  hissing 
in  my  ears.  I  sat  beside  her  as  she  requested,  and  almost 
started,  as  I  felt  her  fingers  playing  with  the  hair  upon  my 
temples. 

"  You  are  cold  to  me,  dear  husband ;  ah !  be  not  cold.  I  have 
narrowly  escaped  from  death.  So  they  tell  me — so  I  feel !  Be 
not  cold  to  me.  Let  me  not  think  that  I  am  burdensome  to 
you." 

"  Why  should  you  think  so,  Julia  ?" 

"  Ah  !  your  words  answer  your  question,  and  speak  for  me. 
They  are  so  few — they  have  no  warmth  in  them;  and  then, 
you  leave  me  BO  much,  dear  husband— why,  why  do  you 
leave  me  ?" 

"  You  do  not  miss  me  much,  Julia.!' 

"  Do  I  not !  ah  !  you  do  me  wrong.  I  miss  nothing  else  but 
you.  I  have  all  that  I  had  when  we  were  first  married— all 
but  my  husband !" 

"  Do  not  deceive  yourself,  Julia ;  these  fine  speeches  do  not 
deceive  me.  I  am  afraid  that  the  love  of  woman  is  a  very 
light  thing.  It  yields  readily  to  the  wind.  Tt  does  not  keep 
in  one  direction  long,  any  more  than  the  vane  on  the  house-top." 

"  You  do  not  think  so,  Edward.  Such  is  not  my  love.  Alas ! 
I  know  not  how  to  make  it  known  to  you,  husband,  if  it  be  not 
already  known ;  and  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  you  do  not  know  it, 
or,  if  you  do,  that  you  do  not  care  much  about  it.  You  seem  to 
care  very  little  whether  I  love  you  or  not." 

I  exclaimed  bitterly,  and  with  the  energy  of  deep  feeling. 

"  bare  little  !  /  care  little  whether  you  love  me  or  no  I  Psha ! 
Julia,  you  must  think  me  a  fool  1" 


STILL  THE  CLOUD.  245 

It  did  seem  to  me  a  sort  of  mockery,  knowing  my  feelings  as 
/  did — knowing  that  all  my  folly  and  suffering  came  from  the 
very  intensity  of  my  passion — that  I  should  be  reproached,  ly 
its  object,  with  indifference  !  I  forgot,  that,  as  a  cover  for  my 
suspicion,  I  had  been  striving  with  all  the  industry  of  art  to 
put  on  the  appearance  of  indifference.  I  did  not  give  myself 
sufficient  credit  for  the  degree  of  success  with  which  I  had 
.labored,  or  I  might  have  suddenly  arrived  at  the  gratifying  con- 
clusion, that,  while  I  was  impressed  and  suffering  with  the 
pangs  of  jealousy,  my  wife  was  trembling  with  fear  that  she 
had  for  ever  lost  my  affections.  My  language,  the  natural  utter- 
ance of  my  real  feelings,  was  not  true  to  the  character  I  had 
assumed.  It  filled  the  countenance  of  the  suffering  woman 
with  consternation.  She  shrunk  from  me  in  terror.  Her  hand 
was  withdrawn  from  my  neck,  as  she  tremulously  replied  :-- 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  to  me  in  such  tones.  Do  not  look  CD 
harshly  upon  me.  What  have  I  done  ?" 

*'  Ay  !  ay  !"  I  muttered,  turning  away. 

She  caught  my  hand. 

'•  Do  not  go  —  do  not  leave  me,  and  with  such  a  look!  Oh ! 
husband,  I  may  not  live  long.  I  feel  that  I  have  had  a  very 
narrow  escape  within  these  few  days  past.  Do  not  kill  me  with 
cruel  looks ;  with  words,  that,  if  cruel  from  you,  would  sooner 
kill  than  the  knife  in  savage  hands.  Oh  !  tell  me  in  what  have 
I  offended  ?  What  is  it  you  think  ?  For  what  am  I  to  blame  ? 
What  do  you  doubt — suspect?'' 

These  questions  were  asked  hurriedly,  apprehensively,  with 
a  look  of  vague  terror,  her  cheeks  whitening  as  she  spoke,  her 
eyes  darting  wildly  into  mine,  and  her  lips  remaining  parted 
after  she  had  spoken. 

"  Ah  !"  I  exclaimed,  keenly  watching  her.  Her  glance  e'mk 
beneath  my  gaze.  I  put  my  hand  upon  her  own. 

"What  do  I  suspect?  What  should  I  suspect?  Hap— 
Here  I  arrested  myself.  My  ardent  anxiety  to  know  the  truth, 
led  me  to  forget  my  caution ;  to  exhibit  a  degree  of  eagerness, 
which  might  have  proved  that  I  did  suspect  and  seriously.  To 
exhibit  the  possession  of  jealousy  was  to  place  her  upon  her 
guard — such  was  the  suggestion  of  that  miserable  policy  by 
which  I  had  been  governed — and  defeat  the  impression  of  that 


246  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND  HEABT. 

feeling  of  perfect  security  and  indifference,  which  I  had  been 
so  long  striving  to  awaken.  I  recovered  myself,  with  this 
thought,  in  season  to  re-assume  this  appearance. 

•*  Your  mind  still  wanders,  Julia.  What  should  I  suspect  ? 
and  whom  ?  You  do  not  suppose  me  to  he  of  a  suspicious 
nature,  do  you  ?" 

"  Not  altogether — not  always — no  !  But,  of  course,  there  is 
nothing  to  suspect.  I  do  not  know  what  I  say.  I  helieve  I  do 
wander." 

This  reply  was  also  spoken  hurriedly,  hut  with  an  obvious 
effoit  at  composure.  The  eagerness  with  which  she  seized  upon 
my  words,  insisting  upon  the  absence  of  any  cause  of  suspicion, 
and  ascribing  to  her  late  delirium,  the  tacit  admissions  which  her 
look  and  language  had  made,  I  need  not  say,  contributed  to 
strengthen  my  suspicions,  and  to  confirm  all  the  previous  con- 
jectures of  my  jealous  spirit. 

"  Be  quiet,"  I  said  with  an  air  of  sangfroid.  "  Do  not  worry 
yourself  in  this  manner.  You  need  sleep.  Try  for  it,  while  I 
leave  you." 

"  Do  not  leave  me ;  sit  beside  me,  dear  Edward.  I  will  sleep 
BO  much  better  when  you  are  beside  me." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Yes,  believe  me.  Ah !  that  I  could  always  keep  you  be- 
sida  me!" 

'  What !  you  are  for  a  new  honeymoon  ?"  I  said  this  in  a 
tone  of  merriment,  which  Heaven  knows,  I  little  felt. 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it  so  lightly  Edward.  It  is  too  serious  a 
matter.  Ah  !  that  you  would  always  remain  with  me ;  that  you 
wxrild  never  leave  me." 

tl  Pshaw  !  What  sickly  tenderness  is  this  \  Why,  how  could 
I  &arn  my  bread  or  yours  ?" 

"  I  do  not  mean  that  you  should  neglect  your  business,  but 
that  when  business  is  over,  you  should  give  me  all  your  time  as 
you  used  to.  Hemember,  how  pleasantly  we  passed  the  even- 
ings after  our  marriage.  Ah  !  how  could  you  forget  ?" 

"  I  do  not,  Julia." 

"  But  you  do  not  care  for  them.  We  spend  no  such  evenings 
now!" 

"  No !  but  it  is  no  fault  of  mine !"  I  said  gloomily ;   then,  in- 


STILL  THE  CLOUD.  247 

terrupting  her  answer,  as  if  dreading  that  she  might  utter 
some  simple  but  true  remark,  which  might  refute  the  interpreta- 
tion which  my  words  conveyed,  that  the  fault  was  hers,  I  en- 
joined silence  upon  her. 

"  You  scarcely  speak  in  your  right  mind  yet,  Julia.  Be  quiet, 
therefore,  and  try  to  sleep." 

"  Well,  if  you  will  sit  beside  me." 

"  I  will  do  so,  since  you  wish  for  it ;  but  where's  the  need  1" 

"Ah!  do  not  ask  the  need,  if  you  still  love  me,"  was  all  eh  3 
said,  and  looked  at  me  with  such  eyes  —  so  tearful,  bright,  so  saa, 
soliciting  —  that,  though  I  did  not  less  doubt,  I  could  no  longer 
deny.  I  resumed  the  seat  beside  her.  She  again  placed  hs  • 
fingers  in  my  hair,  and  in  a  little  while  sunk  into  a  profound 
slumber,  only  broken  by  an  occasional  sob,  which  subsided  into 
a  sigh. 

Were  she  guilty — such  was  the  momentary  suggestion  of  the 
good  angel  —  could  she  sleep  thus? — thus  quietly,  confidingly, 
beside  the  man  she  had  wronged — her  fingers  still  paddling  in 
his  hair — her  sleeping  eyes  still  turning  in  the  direction  of  his 
face? 

To  the  clear,  open  mind,  the  suggestion  would  have  had  the 
force  of  a  conclusive  argument ;  but  mine  was  no  longer  a  clear, 
open  mind.  I  had  the  disease  of  the  blind  heart  upon  me,  and 
all  things  came  out  upon  my  vision  as  through  a  glass,  darkly. 
The  evil  one  at  my  elbow  jeered  when  the  good  angel  spoke. 

"  Fool!  does  she  not  see  that  she  can  blind  you  still!"  Then, 
in  the  vanity  and  vexation  of  my  spirit,  I  mused  upon  it 
further,  and  said  to  myself:  —  "Ay,  but  she  will  find,  ere 
many  days,  that  I  am  no  longer  to  be  blinded !"  The  scales 
were  never  thicker  upon  my  sight  than  when  I  boasted  in  this 
foolish  wise. 


248  CONFESSION,   OK  THE  BLIND   HEART. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 
A  FATHER'S  GRIEFS. 

ontinued  to  improve,  but  slowly.  Her  organization 
was  always  very  delicate.  Her  frame  was  becoming  thin,  al- 
most to  meagreness ;  and  this  last  disaster,  whatever  might  bo 
its  cause,  had  contributed  still  more  to  weaken  a  constitution 
which  education  and  nature  had  never  prepared  for  much  hard 
encounter.  But,  though  I  saw  these  proofs  of  feebleness — of 
a  feebleness  that  might  have  occasioned  reasonable  apprehen 
Bions  of  premature  decay,  and  possibly  very  rapid  decline — 
there  were  little  circumstances  constantly  occurring — looks 
shown,  words  spoken — which  kept  up  the  irritation  of  my  soul, 
and  prevented  me  from  doing  justice  to  her  enfeebled  condi- 
tion. My  sympathies  were  absorbed  in  my  suspicions.  My 
heart  was  the  debateable  land  of  self.  The  blind  passion 
which  enslaved  it,  I  need  scarce  say,  was  of  a  nature  so  potent, 
that  it  could  easily  impregnate,  with  its  own  color,  all  the  ob- 
jects of  its  survey.  Seen  through  the  eyes  of  suspicion,  there 
is  no  truth,  no  virtue ;  the  smile  is  that  of  the  snake ;  the  tear, 
that  of  the  crocodile ;  the  assurance,  that  of  the  traitor.  There 
is  no  act,  look,  word,  of  the  suspected  object,  however  innocent, 
which,  to  the  diseased  mind  of  jealousy,  does  not  suggest  con- 
jectures and  arguments,  all  conclusive  or  confirmatory  of  its 
doubts  and  fears.  It  is  not  necessary  to  say  that  I  shrunk  from 
Julia's  endearment,  requited  her  smiles  with  indifference ;  and, 
though  I  did  not  avoid  her  presence — I  could  not,  in  the  few 
days  when  her  case  was  doubtful — yet  exhibited,  in  all  respects, 
the  conduct  of  one  who  was  in  a  sort  of  Coventry. 

But  one  fact  may  be  stated — one  of  many — which  seemed  to 


249 

give  a  sanction  to  my  suspicions,  will  help  to  justify  my  course, 
and  which,  at  the  time,  was  terribly  conclusive,  to  my  reason, 
of  the  things  which  I  feared.  She  spoke  audibly  the  name  of 
Edgerton,  twice,  thrice,  while  she  slept  beside  me,  in  tones  very 
faint,  it  is  true,  but  still  distinct  enough.  The  faintness  of  her 
utterance,  gave  the  tones  an  emphasis  of  tenderness  which  per- 
haps was  unintended.  Twice,  thrice,  that  fatal  name ;  and  then, 
what  a  sigh  from  the  full  volume  of  a  surcharged  heart.  Let 
any  one  conceive  my  situation — with  my  feelings,  intense  on  all 
subjects — my  suspicions  already  so  thoroughly  awakened;  and 
then  fancy  what  they  must  have  been  on  hearing  that  utterance ; 
from  the  unguarded  lips  of  slumber ;  from  the  wife  lying  beside 
him ;  and  of  the  name  of  him  on  whom  suspicion  already  rested. 
I  hung  over  the  sleeper,  breathless,  almost  gasping,  finally,  in 
the  effort  to  contain  my  breath — in  the  hope  to  hear  something, 
however  slight,  which  was  to  confirm  finally,  or  finally  end  my 
doubts.  I  heard  no  more ;  but  did  more  seem  to  be  necessary  ? 
What  jealous  heart  had  not  found  this  sufficiently  conclusive  ? 
And  that  deep-drawn  sigh,  sobbing,  as  of  a  heart  breaking  with 
the  deferred  hope,  and  the  dream  of  youth  baffled  at  one  sweep- 
ing, severing  blow. 

I  rose.  I  could  no  longer  subdue  my  emotions  to  the  neces- 
sary degree  of  watchfulness.  I  trod  the  chamber  till  daylight. 
Then,  I  dressed  myself  and  went  out  into  the  street.  I  had  no 
distinct  object.  A  vague  persuasion  only,  that  I  must  do  some- 
thing^—  that  something  must  be  done — that,  in  short,  it  was 
necessary  to  force  this  exhausting  drama  to  its  fit  conclusion. 
Of  course  William  Edgerton  was  my  object.  As  yet,  how  to 
bring  about  the  issue,  was  a  problem  which  my  mind  was  not 
prepared  to  solve.  Whether  I  was  to  stab  or  shoot  him ; 
whether  we  were  to  go  through  the  tedious  processes  of  the  duel ; 
to  undergo  the  fatigue  of  preliminaries,  or  to  shorten  them  by 
sudden  rencounter ;  these  were  topics  which  filled  my  thoughts 
confusedly;  upon  which  I  had  no  clear  conviction;  not  because 
I  did  not  attempt  to  fix  upon  a  course,  but  from  a  sheer  in- 
ability to  think  at  all.  My  whole  brain  was  on  fire ;  a  chaotic 
mass,  such  as  rushes  up  from  the  unstopped  vents  of  the  vol- 
cano— fire,  stones,  and  lava — but  dense  smoke  enveloping  the 
whole 


250  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  I  hurried  through  the  streets.  The 
shops  were  yet  unopened.  The  sun  was  just  ahout  to  rise. 
There  was  a  humming  sound,  like  that  of  distant  waters  mur- 
muring along  the  shore,  which  filled  my  ears ;  hut  otherwise 
everything  was  silent.  Sleep  had  not  withdrawn  with  night 
from  his  stealthy  watch  upon  the  household.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  alone  could  not  sleep.  Even  guilt — if  my  wife  were 
really  guilty  —  even  guilt  could  sleep.  I  left  her  sleeping,  and 
how  sweetly  !  as  if  the  dream  which  had  made  her  sob  and  sigh, 
had  been  succeeded  by  others,  that  made  all  smiles  again.  I 
could  not  sleep,  and  yet,  who,  but  a  few  months  before,  had 
been  possessed  of  such  fair  prospects  of  peace  and  prosperity  ? 
Fortune  held  forth  sufficient  promise;  fame  —  so  far  as  fame  can 
be  accorded  by  a  small  community — had  done  something  to- 
ward giving  me  an  honorable  repute;  and  love — had  not  love 
been  seemingly  as  liberal  and  prompt  as  ever  young  passions 
could  have  desired?  I  was  making  money;  I  was  getting 
reputation ;  the  only  woman  whom  I  had  ever  loved  or  sought, 
was  mine ;  and  mine,  too,  in  spite  of  opposition  and  discourage- 
ments which  would  have  chilled  the  ardor  of  half  the  lovers 
in  the  world.  And  yet  I  was  not  happy.  It  takes  so  small  an 
amount  of  annoyance  to  produce  misery  in  the  heart  of  self- 
esteem,  when  united  with  suspicion,  that  it  was  scarcely  pos- 
sible that  I  should  be  happy.  Such  a  man  has  a  taste  for  self- 
torture  ;  as  one  troubled  with  an  irritating  humor,  is  never  at 
rest,  unless  he  is  tearing  the  flesh  into  a  sore ;  he  may  then  rest 
as  he  may. 

I  took  the  way  to  my  office.  It  was  not  often  that  I  went 
thither  before  breakfast.  But  William  Edgerton  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  doing  so.  He  lived  in  the  neighborhood,  and  his 
father  had  taught  him  this  habit  during  the  period  when  he  was 
employed  in  studying  the  profession.  It  might  be  that  I  should 
find  him  there  on  the  present  occasion.  Such  was  my  notion. 
What  farther  thought  I  had  I  know  not ;  but  a  vague  suggestion 
that,  in  that  quiet  hour — there — without  eye  to  see,  or  hand  to 
interpose,  I  might  drag  from  his  heart  the  fearful  secret — I 
might  compel  confession,  take  my  vengeance,  and  rid  myself 
finally  of  that  cruel  agony  which  was  making  me  its  miserable 
puppet.  Crude,  wild  notions  these,  but  very  natural. 


A  FATHER'S  GRIEF.  251 

I  turned  the  comer  of  the  street.  The  window  of  my  office 
was  open.  "  He  is  then  there,"  I  muttered  to  myself;  and  my 
teeth  clutched  each  other  closely.  I  buttoned  my  coat.  My 
heart  was  swelling.  I  looked  around  me,  and  up  to  the  win- 
dows. The  street  was  very  silent — the  grave  not  more  so.  I 
strode  rapidly  across,  threw  open  the  door  of  the  office  which 
stood  ajar,  and  beheld,  not  the  person  whom  I  sought,  but  his 
venerable  father. 

The  sight  of  that  white-headed  old  man  filled  me  with  a 
sense  of  shame  and  degradation.  What  had  he  not  done  for 
me  ?  How  great  his  assistance,  how  kind  his  regards,  how 
liberal  his  offices.  He  had  rescued  me  from  the  bondage  of 
poverty.  He  had  put  forth  the  hand  of  help,  with  a  manly 
grasp  of  succor  at  the  very  moment  when  it  was  most  needed  j 
had  helped  to  make  me  what  I  was ;  and,  for  all  these,  I  had 
come  to  put  to  death  his  only  son.  A  revulsion  of  feeling  took 
place  within  my  bosom.  These  thoughts  were  instantaneous— 
a  sort  of  lightning-flash  from  the*  moral  world  of  thought.  I 
stood  abashed  ;  brought  to  my  senses  in  an  instant,  and  was 
scarcely  able  to  conceal  my  discomfiture  and  confusion.  I  stood 
before  him  with  the  feeling,  and  must  have  worn  the  look,  of  a 
culprit.  Fortunately,  he  did  not  perceive  my  confusion.  Poor 
old  man  !  Cares  of  his  own  —  cares  of  a  father,  too  completely 
occupied  his  mind,  to  suffer  his  senses  to  discharge  their  duties 
with  freedom. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Clifford,  though  I  did  not  expect  it. 
Young  men  of  the  present  day  are  not  apt  to  rise  so  early." 

"  I  must  confess,  sir,  it  is  not  my  habit." 

"  Better  if  it  were.  The  present  generation,  it  seems  to  me, 
may  be  considered  more  fortunate,  in  some  respects,  than  the 
past,  though  they  are  scarcely  wiser.  They  seem  to  me  exempt 
from  such  necessities  ae  encountered  their  fathers.  Their  tasks 
are  fewer — their  labor  is  lighter " 

"  Are  their  cares  the  lighter  in  consequence  ?"  I  demanded. 

"  That  is  the  question, "  he  replied.  "  For  myself,  I  think 
not.  They  grow  gray  the  sooner.  They  have  fewer  tasks,  but 
heavier  troubles.  They  live  better  in  some  respects.  They 
have  luxuries  which,  in  my  day,  youth  were  scarcely  permitted 
to  enjoy  ;  and  which,  indeed,  were  not  often  enjoyed  by  age 


252  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEABT. 

But  they  have  little  peace: — and,  look  at  the  bankruptcies  of 
our  city.     They  are  without  number — they  produce  no  shame 

—  do  not  seem  to  affect  the  credit  of  the  parties ;  and,  certainly, 
in  no  respect  diminish  their  expenditures.     They  live  as  if  the 
present  clay  were  the  last  they  had  to  live ;  and  living  thus, 
they  must  live  dishonestly.     It  is  inevitable.     The  moral  sense 
is  certainly  in  a  much  lower  condition  in  our  country,  than  I 
have  ever  known  it.     What  can  be  the  reason  ?" 

"  The  facility  of  procuring  money,  perhaps.  Money  is  the 
most  clangorous  of  human  possessions." 

"  There  can  be  none  other.     Clifford  !" 

"  Sir." 

"  I  change  the  subject  abruptly.  Have  you  seen  my  son 
lately,  Clifford  V 

The  question  was  solemnly,  suddenly  spoken.  It  staggered 
me.  What  could  it  mean  1  That  there  was  a  meaning  in  it — 
a  deep  meaning — was  unquestionable.  But  of  what  nature? 
Did  the  venerable  man  suspect  my  secret — could  he  by  any 
chance  conjecture  my  purpose  ?  It  is  one  quality  of  a  mind  not 
exactly  satisfied  of  the  propriety  of  its  proceedings,  to  be  sus- 
picious of  all  things  and  persons — to  fancy  that  the  conscious- 
ness which  distresses  itself,  is  also  the  consciousness  of  its 
neighbors.  Hence  the  blush  upon  the  cheek — the  faltering 
accents — the  tremulousness  of  limb,  and  feebleness  of  move- 
ment. For  a  moment  after  the  old  man  spoke  —  troubled  with 
this  consciousness,  I  could  not  answer.  But  my  self-esteem 
came  to  my  relief — nay,  it  had  sufficed  to  cdmceal  my  disquiet. 
My  looks  were  subdued  to  a  seeming  calm — my  voice  was  un- 
broken, while  I  answered  : — 

"I  have  seen  him  within  a  few  days,  sir — a  few  nights  ago 
we  were  at  Mrs.  Delaney's  party.  But  why  the  question,  sir  1 

—  what  troubles  you  ?" 

"  Strange  that  you  have  not  seen  !  Did  you  not  remark  the 
alteration  in  his  appearance  ?" 

"  I  must  confess,  sir,  I  did  not ;  but,  perhaps,  I  did  not  remark 
him  closely  among  the  crowd." 

"  He  is  altered  —  terribly  altered,  Clifford.  It  is  very  strange 
that  you  have  not  seen  it.  It  is  visible  to  myself — his  mother 

—  all  the  family,  and  some  of  its  friends,     We  ti:  Bmble  for  his 


A  FATHER'S  GRIEF.  253 

life.  He  is  a  mere  skeleton — moves  without  life  or  animation, 
feebly  —  liis  cheeks  are  pale  and  thin,  his  lips  white,  and  his 
ey*es  have  an  appearance  which,  beyond  anything  besides,  dis- 
tresses me  —  either  lifelessly  dull,  or  suddenly  flushed  up  with 
an  expression  of  wildness,  which  occurs  so  suddenly  as  to  dis- 
tress us  with  the  worst  apprehensions  of  his  sanity." 

"  Indeed,  sir  !"  I  exclaimed  with  natural  surprise. 

"  So  it  appears  to  us,  his  mother  and  myself,  though,  as  it  has 
escaped  your  eyes,  I  trust  that  we  have  exaggerated  it.  That 
we  have  not  imagined  all  of  it,  however,  we  have  other  proofs 
to  show.  His  manner  is  changed  of  late,  and  most  of  his  habits. 
The  change  is  only  within  the  last  six  months ;  so  suddenly 
made  that  it  has  been  forced  upon  our  sight.  Once  so  frank,  he 
is  now  reserved  and  shrinking  to  the  last  degree ;  speaks  little ; 
is  reluctant  to  converse ;  and,  I  am  compelled  to  believe,  not 
only  avoids  my  glance,  but  fears  it." 

"  It  is  very  strange  that  he  should  do  so,  sir.  I  can  think  of 
no  reason  why  he  should  avoid  your  glance.  Cflfii  y<w?..  su  ? 
Have  you  any  suspicions  ?" 

"  I  have." 

"  Ha !  have  you  indeed  ?" 

The  old  man  drew  his  chair  closer  to  -&&,  and,  putting  his 
hand  on  mine,  with  eyes  in  which  the  tears,  big>  slow-gathering, 
began  to  fill — trickling  *c  length,  one  by  one,  through  the 
venerable  furrows  of  his  cheeks-  he  replied  in  faltering  ac- 
cents : — 

"  A  terrible  suspicion,  Clifford.  I  am  afraid  he  drinks  ;  that 
he  frequents  gambling-houses ;  that,  in  short,  he  is  about  to  bo 
lost  to  us,  body  and  soul,  for  ever." 

Deep  and  touching  was  the  groan  that  followed  from  that  old 
man's  bosom.  I  hastened  to  relieve  him, 

'  I  am  sure,  sir,  that  you  do  your  son  great  injustice.  I  can- 
not conceive  it  possiole  that  he  should  have  fallen  into  these 
habits '' 

*'  He  is  cut  night  / — la  ,e — till  near  daylight.  But  two  hours 
a^o  he  returned  home.  Let  me  confess  to  you,  Clifford,  what  I 
should  be  loath  to  confess  to  anybody  else.  I  followed  him 
last  night.  He  took  the  path  to  the  suburbs,  and  I  kept  him  in 
sight  almost  till  he  reached  your  dwelling.  Then  I  lost  him 


254  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

He  moved  too  rapidly  then  for  my  old  limbs,  and  disappeared 
among  those  groves  of  wild  orange  that  fill  your  neighborhood. 
I  searched  them  as  closely  as  I  could  in  the  imperfect  starlight, 
but  could  see  nothing  of  him.  I  am  told  that  there  are  gam- 
bling-houses, notorious  enough,  in  the  suburbs  just  beyond  you. 
I  fear  that  he  found  shelter  in  these — that  he  finds  shelter  in 
them  nightly." 

I  scarcely  breathed  while  listening  to  the  unhappy  father's 
narrative.  There  was  one  portion  of  it  to  which  I  need  not 
refer  the  reader,  as  calculated  to  confirm  my  own  previous  con- 
victions. I  struggled  with  my  feelings,  however,  in  respect  for 
his.  I  kept  them  down  and  spoke. 

"  In  this  one  fact,  Mr.  Edgerton,  I  see  nothing  to  alarm  you. 
Your  son  may  have  been  engaged  far  more  innocently  than  you 
imagine.  He  is  young — you  know  too  well  the  practices  of 
young  men.  As  for  the  drinking  he  is  perhaps  the  very  last 
person  whom  I  should  suspect  of  excess.  I  have  always  thought 
his  temperance  unquestionable." 

"  Until  recently,  I  should  have  had  no  fears  myself.  But 
connecting  one  fact  with  another — his  absence  all  night,  nightly 
— the  stealthiness  with  which  he  departs  from  home  after  the 
i?f.mily  has  retired— t!;ie  stealthiness  with  which  he  returns  just 
before  day — his  visible  agitation  when  addressed — and,  oh 
Clifford !  worst  of  all  signs,  the  shrinking  of  his  eye  beneath 
mine  and  his  mother's  —  the  fear  to  meet,  and  the  effort  to 
avoid  us — these  are  the  signs  which  most  pain  me,  and  excite 
my  apprehensions  But  look  at  his  face  and  figure  also.  The 
haggard  misery  of  the  one,  sign  of  sleeplessness  and  late  watch- 
ing— the  attenuated  feebleness  of  the  other,  showing  the  effects 
of  some  practices,  no  matter  of  what  particular  sort,  which  are 
undermining  his  constitution,  and  rapidly  tending  to  destroy 
liim  If  you  but  look  in  his  eye  as  I  have  done,  marking  its 
wilducss,  its  wandering,  its  sensible  expression  of  shame — yoL 
can  hardly  fail  to  think  with  me  that  something  is  morally- 
wrong.  He  is  guilty " 

"He  is  guilty!" 

I  echoed  the  words  of  the  father,  involuntarily.  They 
struck  the  chord  of  conviction  in  my  own  soul,  and  seemed  to  mp 
the  language  of  a  judgment. 


A  FATHER'S  GRIEF.  255 

"  Ha !  You  know  it,  then  ?"  cried  the  old  man.  "  Speak  ! 
Tell  me,  Clifford — what  is  his  folly?  What  is  the  particular 
guilt  and  shame  into  which  he  has  fallen  ?" 

I  knew  not  that  I  had  spoken  until  I  heard  these  words. 
The  agitation  of  the  father  was  greatly  increased.  Truly,  his 
sorrows  were  sad  to  look  upon.  I  answered  him  : — 

"  I  simply  echoed  your  words,  sir — I  am  ignorant,  as  I  said 
before  ;  and,  indeed,  I  may  venture,  I  think,  with  perfect  safety, 
to  assure  you  that  gaming  and  drink  have  nothing  to  do  with 
his  appearance  and  deportment.  I  should  rather  suspect  him  of 
some  improper  —  some  guilty  connection " 

I  felt  that,  in  the  utterance  of  these  words,  I  too  had  become 
excited.  My  voice  did  not  rise,  but  I  knew  that  it  had  acquir- 
ed an  intenseness  which  I  as  quickly  endeavored  to  suppress. 
But  the  father  had  already  beheld  the  expression  in  my  face, 
and  perhaps  the  sudden  change  in  my  tones  grated  harshly  upon 
his  ear.  I  could  see  that  his  looks  became  more  eager  and  in- 
quiring. I  could  note  a  greater  degree  of  apprehension  and 
anxiety  in  his  eyes.  I  subdued  myself,  though  not  without 
some  effort. 

"William  Edgerton  may  be  erring,  sir — that  I  do  not  deny, 
for  I  have  seen  too  little  of  him  of  late  to  say  anything  of  his 
proceedings ;  but  I  am  very  confident  when  I  say  that  excess 
in  liquor  can  not  be  a  vice  of  his ;  and  as  for  gaming,  I  should 
fancy  that  he  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  likely  to  be 
tempted  to  the  indulgence  of  such  a  practice." 

The  father  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"Why  this  shame?  —  this  fear?  Besides,  Clifford,  what  wo 
know  of  our  son  makes  us  equally  suie  tha*  ^vcmen  hav& 
nothing  to  do  with  his  excesses.  But  these  conjectures  h  ,lp  U3 
nothing.  Clifford,  I  must  look  to  you." 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir  ?" 

"He  is  my  son,  my  only  son  —  the  care  of  many  sad,  sleep- 
less hours.  It  was  his  mother's  hope  that  he  would  be  our 
solace  in  the  weary  and  the  sad  ones.  You  can  not  understand 
yet  how  much  the  parent  lives  in  the  child — how  many,  of  his 
hopes  settle  there.  William  has  already  disappointed  us  in  our 
ambition.'  He  will  be  nothing  that  we  hoped  him  to  be ;  but  of 
this  I  complain  not.  But  that  he  should  become  base,  Clifford  j 


256  CONFESSION,    OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

a  night-prowler  in  the  streets ;  a  hanger-on  of  stews  and  gam- 
ing-houses ;  a  brawler  at  an  alehouse  bar ;  a  man  to  skulk  through 
life  and  society ;  down-looking  in  his  father's  sight ;  despised 
in  that  of  the  community — oh !  these  are  the  cruel,  the  dread- 
ful apprehensions  !" 

"  But  you  know  not  that  he  is  any  of  these." 

"  True ;  but  there  is  something  grievously  wrong  when  the 
sou  dares  not  meet  the  eye  of  a  parent  with  manly  fearlessness ; 
when  he  looks  without  joyance  at  the  face  of  a  mother,  and 
shrinks  from  her  endearments  as  if  he  felt  that  he  deserved 
them  not.  William  Edgerton  is  miserable  ;  that  is  evident 
enough.  Now,  misery  does  not  always  imply  guilt ;  but, 
ji  his  case,  what  else  should  it  imply!  He  has  had  no 
misfortunes.  He  is  independent ;  he  is  beloved  by  his  parents, 
and  by  his  friends ;  he  has  had  no  denial  of  the  affections ; 
in  short,  there  is  no  way  of  accounting  for  his  conduct  or 
appearance,  but  by  the  supposition  that  he  has  fallen  into 
vicious  habits.  Whatever  these  habits  are,  they  are  killing 
him.  He  is  a  mere  skeleton ;  his  whole  appearance  is  that  of  a 
man  running  a  rapid  course  of  dissipation  which  can  only  ad- 
vance in  shame,  and  terminate  in  death.  Clifford,  if  I  have 
ever  served  you  in  the  hour  of  your  need,  serve  me  in  this  of 
mine.  Save  my  son  for  me.  Bring  him  back  from  his  folly ; 
restore  him,  if  you  can,  to  peace  and  purity.  Sec  him,  will  you 
not  ?  Seek  him  out ;  see  him ;  probe  his  secret ;  and  tell  me 
what  can  be  done  to  rescue  him  before  it  be  too  late." 

"Really,  Mr.  Edgerton,  you  confound  me.  What  can  I 
do?" 

"  I  know  not.  Every  thing,  perhaps !  I  confess  I  can  not 
counsel  you.  I  can  not  even  suggest  how  you  should  begin. 
You  must  judge  for  yourself.  You  must  think  and  make  your 
approaches  according  to  your  own  judgment.  Remember,  that 
it  is  not  in  his  behalf  only.  Think  of  the  father,  the  mother ! 
our  hope,  our  all  is  at  stake.  I  speak  to  you  in  the  language 
of  a  child,  Clifford.  I  am  a  child  in  this.  This  boy  has  been 
the  apple  of  our  eyes.  It  is  our  sight  for  which  I  seek  yonr 
help.  I  know  your  good  sense  and  sagacity.  I  know  that  you 
can  trace  out  his  secret  when  I  should  fail.  My  feelings  would 
blind  me  to  the  truth.  They  might  lead  me  to  use  language 


A  FATHER'S  GRIEF.  257 

which  would  drive  him  from  me.  I  leave  it  all  to  you.  I  know 
not  who  else  can  do  for  me  half  so  well  in  a  matter  of  this  sort. 
Will  you  undertake  it  ?" 

Could  I  refuse  ?  This  question  was  discussed  in  all  its  bear- 
ings, in  a  few  lightning-like  progresses  of  thought.  I  felt  all 
its  difficulties — anticipated  the  annoyances  to  which  it  would 
subject  me,  and  the  degree  of  self-forbearance  which  it  would 
necessarily  require ;  yet,  when  I  looked  on  the  noble  old  gentle- 
man who  sat  beside  me — his  gray  hairs,  his  pleading  looks,  the 
recollection  of  the  deep  debt  of  gratitude  which  I  owed  him  — 
I  put  my  hand  in  his ;  I  could  resist  no  longer. 

"  I  will  try  !"  was  the  brief  answer  which  I  made  him. 

"God  bless,  God  speed  you!"  he  exclaimed,  squeezing  my 
hand  with  a  pressure  that  said  everything,  and  we  separated ,> 
he  for  his  family,  and  I  for  that  new  task  which  I  had  under- 
taken. How  different  from  my  previous  purpose  !  I  was  now 
to  seek  to  save  the  person  whom  I  had  set  forth  that  morning 
with  the  purpose  (if  I  had  any  purpose)  to  destroy.  What  & 
volume  mado  up  of  contradictions  and  inconsistencies,  strangely 
bound  together,  is  the  moral  world  of  man  \ 


258  CONFESSION,  OS  THE  BUND   HEART. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

AVOCATION   OF   "THE   QUESTION." 

bow  to  save  him  ?  How  to  approach  him  ?  How  to 
keep  down  my  own  sense  of  wrong,  my  own  feeling  of  misery, 
while  representing  the  wishes  and  the  feelings  of  that  good  old 
man — that  venerable  father  ?  These  were  Questions  to  afflict, 
to  confound  me  !  Still,  I  was  committed  ;  I  must  do  what  I 
had  promised ;  undertake  it  at  least ;  and  the  conviction  that 
euch  a  task  was  to  be  the  severest  trial  of  my  manliness,  was  a 
conviction  that  necessarily  helped  to  strengthen  me  to  go  through 
with  it  like  a  man, 

What  I  had  heard  from  Mr.  Edgerton  in  relation  to  his  son, 
though  new,  and  Eomewhat  surprising  to  myself,  had  not  altered, 
in  any  respect,  my  impressions  on  the  subject  of  his  conduct 
toward,  or  with,  my  wife.  Indeed-  it  rather  served  to  confirm 
them  I  could  have  told  the  old  man,  that,  in  losing  all  traces 
of  his  son  in  the  neighborhood  of  my  dwelling  the  night  when 
he  pursued  him,  he  had  the  most  conclusive  proofs  that  he  had 
gone  to  no  gaming-houses.  But  where  did  he  go  ?  That  was 
a  question  for  myself.  Had  he  entered  my  premises,  and 
hidden  himself  amidst  the  foliage  where  I  had  myself  BO 
often  harbored,  while  my  object  had  been  the  secret  inspec- 
tion of  my  household?  Could  it  be  that  he  had  loitered 
there  during  the  last  few  nights  of  my  wife's  illness,  in  the  vain 
hope  of  seeing  me  take  my  departure?  This  was  the  con- 
clusion which  I  reached,  and  with  it  came  the  next  thought  that 
he  would  revisit  the  spot  again  that  night.  Ha !  that  thought ! 
"Let  him  come  !"  I  muttered  to  myself.  "  I  will  endeavor  to 
be  in  readiness !" 


APPLICATION   OP   THE  QUESTION.  259 

But,  surely,  tlie  father  was  grievously  in  error ;  his  parental 
fear,  alone,  had  certainly  drawn  the  picture  of  his  son's  reduced 
and  miserable  condition.  I  had  seen  nothing  of  this.  I  had 
observed  that  he  was  shy,  incommunicative  —  seeking  to  avoid 
me,  as,  according  to  their  showing,  he  had  striven  to  avoid  his 
parents.  So  far  our  experience  had  been  the  same.  But  I  had 
totally  failed  to  perceive  the  marks  of  suffering  or  of  sin  which 
the  vivid  feelings  of  the  father  on  this  subject  had  insisted  were 
so  apparent.  I  had  seen  in  Edgerton  only  the  false  friend,  the 
traitor,  stealing  like  a  serpent  to  my  bower,  to  beguile  from  my 
side  the  only  object  which  made  it  dear  to  me.  I  could  see  in 
him  only  the  exulting  seducer,  confident  in  his  ability,  artful  in 
his  endeavors,  winning  in  his  accomplishments,  and  striving, 
with  practised  industry  of  libertinism,  in  the  prosecution  of  his 
cruel  schemes.  I  could  see  the  grace  of  his  bearing,  the  ease 
of  his  manner,  the  symmetry  of  his  person,  the  neatness  of  his 
costume,  the  superiority  of  his  dancing,  the  insinuation  of  his 
address.  I  could  see  these  only  !  That  he  looked  miserable — 
that  he  was  thin  to  meagreness,  I  had  not  seen. 

Yet,  even  were  it  so,  what  could  this  prove,  as  the  father  had 
conclusively  shown,  but  guilt-.  Poverty  could  not  trouble  him 
—  he  had  never  been  an  unrequited  lover.  He  had  gone  along 
the  stream  of  society,  indifferent  to  the  lures  of  beauty,  and 
with  a  bark  that  had  always  appeared  studiously  to  keep  aloof 
from  the  shores  or  shoals  of  matrimony.  If  he  was  miserable, 
his  misery  could  only  come  from  misconduct,  not  from  mis- 
fortune. It  was  a  misery  engendered  by  guilt,  and  what  was 
that  guilt  ?  I  knew  that  he  did  not  drink ;  and  was  not  his 
course  in  regard  to  Kingsley,  as  narrated  by  that  person  on  the 
night  when  we  went  to  the  gaming-house  together — was  not 
that  sufficient  to  show  that  he  was  no  gamester,  unless  he  hap- 
pened to  be  one  of  the  most  bare  faced  of  all  canting  hypo- 
crites, which  I  could  not  believe  him  to  be.  What  remained, 
but  that  my  calculations  were  right  ?  It  was  guilt  that  was  sink- 
ing him,  body  and  soul,  so  that  his  eye  no  longer  dared  to  look 
upward  —  so  that  his  ear  shrunk  from  the  sounds  of  those 
voices  which,  even  in  the  language  of  kindness,  were  still 
speaking  to  him  in  the  severest  language  of  rebuke.  And 
whom  did  that  guilt  concern  more  completely  than  myself? 


260  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND    HEART. 

Say  that  the  father  was  to  lose  his  son,  his  only  son — what 
was  my  loss,  what  was  my  shame  !  and  upon  whom  should  the 
curse  most  fully  and  finally  fall,  if  not  upon  the  wrong-doer, 
though  it  so  happened  that  the  ruin  of  the  guilty  brought  with 
it  overthrow  to  the  innocent  scarcely  less  complete ! 

The  extent  of  that  guilt  of  Edgerton  1 

On  this  point  all  was  a  wilderness,  vague,  inconclusive,  con- 
fused and  crowded  within  my  understanding.  I  believed  that  he 
had  approached  my  wife  with  evil  designs  —  I  believed,  without 
a  doubt,  that  he  had  passed  the  boundaries  of  propriety  in  his 
intercourse  with  her ;  but  I  believed  not  that  she  had  fallen ! 
No  !  I  had  an  instinctive  confidence  in  her  purity,  that  render- 
ed it  apparently  impossible  that  she  should  lapse  into  the  gross- 
ness  of  illicit  love.  What,  then,  was  my  fear  ]  That  she  did 
love  him,  though,  struggling  with  the  tendency  of  her  heart,  she 
had  not  yielded  in  the  struggle.  I  believed  that  his  grace,  beauty, 
and  accomplishments  —  his  persevering  attention  —  his  similar 
tastes — had  succeeded  in  making  an  impression  upon  her  soul 
which  had  effectually  eradicated  mine.  I  believed  that  his  at- 
tentions were  sweet  to  her — that  she  had  not  the  strength  to 
reject  them  ;  and,  though  she  may  have  proved  herself  too  virtu- 
ous to  yield,  she  had  not  been  sufficiently  strong  to  repulse  him 
with  virtuous  resentment. 

That  Edgerton  had  not  succeeded,  did  not  lessen  his  offence. 
The  attempt  was  an  indignity  that  demanded  atonement  —  that 
justified  punishment  equally  severe  with  that  which  should  have 
followed  a  successful  prosecution  of  his  purpose.  Women  are 
by  nature  weak.  They  are  not  to  be  tempted.  He  who, 
knowing  their  weakness,  attempts  their  overthrow  by  that 
medium,  is  equally  cowardly  and  criminal.  I  could  not  doubt 
that  he  had  made  this  attempt ;  but  now  it  seemed  necessary 
that  I  should  suspend  my  indignation,  in  obedience  with  what 
appeared  to  be  a  paramount  duty.  A  selfish  reasoning  now 
suggested  compliance  with  this  duty  as  a  mean  for  procuring 
better  intelligence  than  I  already  possessed.  I  need  not  say 
that  the  doubt  was  the  pain  in  my  bosom.  I  felt,  in  the  words 
of  the  cold  devil  lago,  those  "  damned  minutes"  of  him  "  who 
dotes,  yet  doubts,  suspects,  yet  strongly  loves." 

The  shapeless  character  of  my  fears  and  suspicions  did  not 


APPLICATION  OP  THE   QUESTION.  261 

by  any  means  lessen  their  force  and  volume.  On  the  contrary 
it  caused  them  to  loom  out  through  the  hazy  atmosphere  of  the 
imagination,  assuming  aspects  more  huge  and  terrible,  in  con- 
sequence of  their  very  indistinctness ;  as  the  phantom  shapes 
along  the  mountains  of  the  Brocken,  gathering  and  scowling  in 
the  morning  or  the  evening  twilight.  To  obtain  more  precise 
knowledge  —  to  be  able  to  subject  to  grasp  and  measure  the  un- 
certain phantoms  which  I  feared — was,  if  not  to  reduce  their 
proportions,  at  least  to  rid  me  of  that  excruciating  suspense,  in 
determining  what  to  do,  which  was  the  natural  result  of  my 
present  ignorance. 

With  some  painstaking,  I  was  enabled  to  find  and  force  an 
interview  with  Edgerton  that  very  day.  He  made  an  effort  to 
elude  me — such  an  effort  as  he  could  make  without  allowing 
his  object  to  be  seen.  But  I  was  not  to  be  baffled.  Having 
once  determined  upon  my  course,  I  was  a  puritan  in  the  invete- 
racy Avith  which  I  persevered  in  it.  But  it  required  no  small 
struggle  to  approach  the  criminal,  and  so  utterly  to  subdue  my 
awn  sense  of  wrong,  my  suspicions  and  my  hostility,  as  to  keep 
in  sight  no  more  than  the  wishes  and  fears  of  the  father.  I 
have  already  boasted  of  my  strength  in  some  respects,  even 
while  exposing  my  weaknesses  in  others.  That  I  could  per- 
suade Edgerton  and  my  wife,  equally,  of  my  indifference,  even 
at  the  moment  when  I  was  most  agonized  by  my  doubts  of 
their  purity,  is  a  sufficient  proof  that  I  possessed  a  certain  sort 
of  strength.  It  was  a  moral  strength,  too,  which  could  conceal 
the  pangs  inflicted  by  the  vulture,  even  when  it  was  preying 
upon  the  vitals  of  the  best  affections  and  the  dearest  hopes  of 
the  heart.  It  was  necessary  that  I  should  put  all  this  strength 
in  requisition,  as  well  to  do  what  was  required  by  the  father,  as 
to  pierce,  with  keen  eye,  and  considerate  question,  to  the'  secret 
soul  of  the  witness.  I  must  assume  the  blandest  manner  of  our 
youthful  friendship  :  I  must  say  kind  things,  and  say  them  with 
a  certain  frank  unconsciousness.  I  must  use  the  language  of  a 
good  fellow  —  a  sworn  companion — who  is  anxious  to  do  justice 
to  my  friend's  father,  and  yet  had  no  notion  that  my  friend 
himself  was  doing  the  smallest  thing  to  justify  the  unmeasured 
fears  of  the  fond  old  man.  Such  was  my  cue  at  first.  I  am 
not  so  sure  that  I  pursued  it  to  the  end ;  but  of  this  hereafter. 


262  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

My  attention  having  been  specially  drawn  to  the  personal 
appearance  of  William  Edgerton,  I  was  surprised,  if  not  abso- 
lutely shocked,  to  see  that  the  father  had  scarcely  exaggerated 
the  misery  of  his  condition.  He  was  the  mere  shadow  of  his 
former  self.  His  limbs,  only  a  year  before,  had  been  rounded 
even  to  plumpness.  They  were  now  sharp  and  angular.  His 
skin  was  pale,  his  looks  haggard  ;  and  that  apprehensive  shrink- 
ing of  the  eye,  which  had  called  forth  the  most  keen  expressions 
of  fear  and  suspicion  from  the  father's  lips,  was  the  prominent 
characteristic  which  commanded  my  attention  during  our  brief 
interview.  His  eye,  after  the  first  encounter,  no  longer  rose  to 
mine.  Keenly  did  I  watch  his  face,  though  for  an  instant  only. 
A  sudden  hectic  flush  mantled  its  paleness.  I  could  perceive  a 
nervous  muscular  movement  about  his  mouth,  and  he  slightly 
started  when  I  spoke. 

"  Edgerton,"  I  said,  with  tones  of  good-humored  reproach, 
"  there's  no  finding  you  now-a-days.  You  have  the  invisible 
cap.  What  do  you  do  with  yourself  ?  As  for  law,  that  seems 
destined  to  be  a  mourner  so  far  as  you  are  concerned.  She  sits 
like  a  widow  in  her  weeds.  You  have  abandoned  her :  do  you 
mean  to  abandon  your  friends  also  ?" 

He  answered,  with  a  faint  attempt  to  smile : — 

"  No  ;  I  have  been  to  see  you  often,  but  you  are  never  at 
home." 

"  Ah  !  I  did  not  hear  of  it.  But  if  you  really  wished  to  see 
a  husband  who  has  survived  the  honeymoon,  I  suspect  that 
home  is  about  the  last  place  where  you  should  seek  for  him. 
Julia  did  the  honors,  I  trust  ?" 

His  eye  stole  upward,  met  mine,  and  sunk  once  more  upon 
the  floor.  He  answered  faintly : — 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  not  seen  her  for  some  days." 

"  Not  since  Mother  Delaney's  party,  I  believe  V1 

The  color  came  again  into  his  cheeks,  but  instantly  after  was 
succeeded  by  a  deadly  paleness. 

"  What  a  bore  these  parties  are  !  and  such  parties  as  those  of 
Mrs.  Delaney  are  particularly  annoying  to  me.  Why  the  d — 1 
couldn't  the  old  tabby  halter  her  hobby  without  calling  in  her 
neighbors  to  witness  the  painful  spectacle  ?  You  were  there,  I 
think?" 


APPLICATION  OP  THE  QUESTION.  263 

"Yes." 

"  I  left  early.  I  got  heartily  sick.  You  know  I  never  like 
such  places ;  and,  as  soon  as  they  began,  dancing,  I  took  advan- 
tage of  the  fuss  and  fiddle  to  steal  off.  It  was  unfortunate  I 
did  so,  for  Julia  was  taken  sick,  and  has  had  a  narrow  chance 
for  it.  I  thought  I  should  have  lost  her." 

All  this  was  spoken  in  tones  of  the  coolest  imaginable  indif- 
ference. Edgerton  was  evidently  surprised.  He  looked  up 
with  some  curiosity  in  his  glance,  and  more  confidence ;  and, 
with  accents  that  slightly  faltered,  he  asked : — 

"  Is  she  well  again  ?     I  trust  she  is  better  now." 

"Yes!"  I  answered,  with  the  same  sang-froid.  "But  I've 
had  a  serious  business  of  watching  through  the  last  three  nights. 
Her  peril  was  extreme.  She  lost  her  little  one." 

A  visible  shudder  went  through  his  frame. 

"  Tired  to  death  of  the  walls  of  the  house,  which  seems  a  dun- 
geon to  me,  I  dashed  out  this  morning,  at  daylight,  as  soon  as  I 
found  I  could  safely  leave  her ;  and,  strolling  down  to  the  office, 
who  should  I  find  there  but  your  father,  perched  at  the  desk, 
and  seemingly  inclined  to  resume  all  his  former  practice  ?" 

"  Indeed  !  my  father — so  early  ?  What  could  be  the  matter  1 
Did  he  tell  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  i'faith,  he  is  in  tribulation  about  you.  He  fancies  you 
are  in  a  fair  way  to  destruction.  You  can't  conceive  what  he 
fancies.  It  seems,  according  to  his  account,  that  you  are  a 
night-stalker.  He  dwells  at  large  upon  your  nightly  absences 
from  home,  and  then  about  your  appearance,  which,  to  say 
truth,  is  very  wretched.  You  scarcely  look  like  the  same  man, 
Edgerton.  Have  you  been  sick?  What's  the  matter  with 
you  ?" 

"  I  am  not  altogether  well,"  he  said,  evasively. 

"Yes,  but  mere  indisposition  would  never  produce  such  a 
change,  in  so  short  a  period,  in  any  man !  Your  father  is  dis- 
posed to  ascribe  it  to  other  causes." 

"  Ah  !  what  does  he  think  ?" 

I  fancied  there  was  mingled  curiosity  and  trepidation  in  this 
inquiry. 

"  He  suspects  you  of  gaming  and  drinking ;  but  I  assured 
him,  very  confidently,  that  such  was  not  the  case.  On  one  of 


264  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

these  Leads  I  could  speak  confidently,  for  I  met  Kingsley  the 
other  night  —  the  night  of  Mother  Delaney's  party  —  who  was 
hot  and  heavy  against  you  because  you  refused  to  lend  him 
money  for  such  purposes.  I  was  more  indulgent,  lent  him  the 
money,  went  with  him  to  the  house,  and  returned  home  with  a 
pocket  full  of  specie,  sufficient  to  set  up  a  small  banking-opera- 
tion of  my  own." 

"  You  !  can  it  be  possible  ?" 

"  True ;  and  no  such  dull  way  of  spending  an  evening  either. 
I  got  home  in  the  small  hours,  and  found  Julia  delirious.  I 
haven't  had  such  a  fright  for  a  stolen  pleasure,  Heaven  knows 
when.  There  was  the  doctor,  and  there  my  eternal  mother-in- 
law,  and  my  poor  little  wife  as  near  the  grave  as  could  be ! 
But  the  circumstance  of  refusing  the  money  to  Kingsley,  know- 
ing his  object,  made  me  confident  that  gaming  was  not  the  cause 
of  your  night-stalking,  and  so  I  told  the  old  gentleman." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  1" 

11  Shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  reasoned  in  this  manner : 
4  He  has  no  pecuniary  necessities,  has  no  oppressive  toils,  and 
has  never  had  any  disappointment  of  heart.  There  is  nothing 
to  make  him  behave  so,  and  look  so,  but  guilt — GUILT  !'  " 

I  repeated  the  last  word  with  an  entire  change  in  the  tone  of 
my  voice.  Light,  lively,  and  playful  before,  I  spoke  that  single 
word  with  a  stern  solemnity,  and,  bending  toward  him,  my  eye 
keenly  traversed  the  mazes  of  his  countenance. 

"  He  lias  it  /"  I  thought  to  myself,  as  his  head  drooped  for- 
ward, and  his  whole  frame  shuddered  momentarily. 

"But" — here  my  tones  again  became  lively  and  playful — I 
even  laughed — "  I  told  the  old  man  that  I  fancied  I  could  hit 
the  nail  more  certainly  on  the  head.  In  short,  I  said  I  could 
pretty  positively  say  what  was  the  cause  of  your  conduct  and 
condition." 

"Ah !"  and,  as  he  uttered  this  monosyllable,  he  made  a  fee- 
ble effort  to  rise  from  his  seat,  but  sunk  back,  and  again  fixed 
his  eye  upon  the  floor  in  visible  emotion. 

"  Yes !  I  told  him — was  I  not  right? — that  a  woman  was  at 
the  bottom  of  it  all !" 

He  started  to  his  feet.     His  face  was  averted  from  me. 

"  Ha !  was  I  not  right  ?     I  knew  it !     I  saw  through  it  from 


APPLICATION  OF  THE  QUESTION.  265 

the  first ;  and,  though  I  did  not  tell  the  old  man  that,  I  was 
pretty  sure  that  you  were  trespassing  upon  your  neighbor's 
grounds.  Ha  !  what  say  you  ?  Was  I  not  right  ?  Were  you 
not  stealing  to  forbidden  places — playing  the  snake,  on  a  small 
scale,  in  some  blind  man's  Eden  ]  Ha !  ha !  what  say  you  to 
that  1  I  am  right,  am  I  not  ?  eh  ?" 

I  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder  as  I  spoke.  His  face  had  been 
half  averted  from  me  while  I  was  speaking ;  but  now  it  turned 
upon  me,  and  his  glance  met  mine,  teeming  with  inquisitive 
horror. 

"  No  !  no  !  you  are  not  right !"  he  faltered  out ;  "  it  is  not  so. 
Nothing  is  the  matter  with  me!  I  am  quite  well — quite!  I 
will  see  my  father,  and  set  him  right." 

"Do  so,"  I  said,  coolly  and  indifferently — "do  so;  tell  him 
what  you  please:  but  you  can't  change  my  conviction  that 
you're  after  some  pretty  woman,  and  probably  poaching  on 
some  neighbor's  territory.  Come,  make  me  your  confidante, 
Edgerton.  Let  us  know  the  history  of  your  misfortune.  Is 
the  lady  pliant  ?  I  should  judge  so,  since  you  continue  to  spend 
so  many  nights  away  from  home.  Come,  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it.  Out  with  your  secret !  I  have  always  been  your  friend. 
We  could  not  betray  each  other,  I  think  /" 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken,"  he  said,  with  the  effort  of  one  who 
is  half  strangled.  "  There  is  nothing  in  it  j  I  assure  you,  you 
were  never  more  mistaken." 

"  Pshaw,  Edgerton !  you  may  blind  papa,  but  you  can  not 
blind  me.  Keep  your  secret,  if  you  please,  but,  if  you  provoke 
me,  I  will  trace  it  out ;  I  will  unkennel  you.  If  I  do  not  shoTv 
the  sitting  hare  in  a  fortnight,  by  the  course  of  the  hunter,  tell 
me  I  am  none  myself." 

His  consternation  increased,  but  I  did  not  allow  it  to  disarm 
me.  I  probed  him  keenly,  and  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make 
him  wince  with  apprehension  at  every  word  which  I  uttered. 
Morally,  William  Edgerton  was  a  brave  man.  Guilt  alone 
made  him  a  coward.  It  actually  gave  me  pain,  after  a  while, 
to  behold  his  wretched  imbecility.  He  hung  upon  my  utter- 
ance with  the  trembling  suspense  of  one  whose  eye  has  become 
enchained  with  the  fascinating  gaze  of  the  serpent.  I  put  my 
questions  and  comments  home  to  him,  on  the  assumption  that 

12 


266  CONFESSION, 'OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

lie  was  playing  the  traitor  with  another's  wife ;  though  taking 
care,  all  the  while,  that  my  manner  should  he  that  of  one  who 
has  no  sort  of  apprehensions  on  his  own  score.  My  deportment 
and  tone  tallied  well  with  the  practised  indifference  which  had 
distinguished  my  previous  overt  conduct.  It  deceived  him  on 
that  head ;  but  the  truth,  like  a  sharp  knife,  was  no  less  keen 
in  penetrating  to  his  soul;  and,  preserving  my  coolness  and 
directness,  with  that  singular  tenacity  of  purpose  which  I  could 
maintain  in  spite  of  my  own  sufferings  —  and  keep  them  still 
unsuspected  —  I  did  not  scruple  to  impel  the  sharp  iron  into 
every  sensitive  place  within  his  bosom. 

He  writhed  visibly  before  me.  His  struggles  did  not  please 
me,  but  I  sought  to  produce  them  simply  because  they  seemed 
BO  many  proofs  confirming  the  truth  of  my  conjectures.  The 
fiend  in  my  own  soul  kept  whispering,  "He  has  it!" — and  a 
fatal  spell,  not  unlike  that  which  riveted  his  attention  to  the 
language  which  tore  and  vexed  him,  urged  me  to  continue  it 
until  at  length  the  sting  became  too  keen  for  his  endurance.  In 
very  desperation,  he  broke  away  from  the  fetters  of  that  fascina- 
tion of  terror  which  had  held  him  for  one  mortal  hour  to  the  spot 

"No  more!  no  more !"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  uncontrollable 
burst  of  emotion.  "  You  torture  me !  I  can  stand  it  no  longer  I 
There  is  nothing  in  your  conjecture !  There  is  no  reason  for 
your  suspicions  !  She  is — " 

"She?    Ah!" 

I  could  not  suppress  the  involuntary  exclamation.  The  trutl 
seemed  to  be  at  hand.  I  was  premature.  My  utterance  brought 
him  to  his  senses.  He  stopped,  looked  at  me  wildly  for  an  in- 
stant, his  eyes  dilated  almost  to  bursting.  He  seemed  suddenly 
to  be  conscious  that  the  secrets  of  his  soul — its  dark,  uncommis- 
sioned secrets — were  about  to  force  themselves  into  sight  and 
speech;  and  unable,  perhaps,  to  arrest  them  in  any  other  way 
he  darted  headlong  from  my  presence. 


MEDITATED   EXILE.  267 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

MEDITATED    EXILE. 

WITH  his  departure  sunk  the  spirit  which  had  sustained  me. 
I  had  not  gone  through  that  scene  willingly;  I  had  suffered 
quite  as  many  pangs  as  himself.  I  had  made  my  own  misery, 
though  disguised  under  the  supposed  condition  of  another,  the 
subject  of  my  own  mockery ;  and  if  I  succeeded  in  driving  the 
iron  into  his  soul,  the  other  end  of  the  shaft  was  all  the  while 
working  in  mine  !  His  flight  was  an  equal  relief  to  both  of  us. 
The  stern  spirit  left  me  from  that  moment  My  agony  found 
relief,  momentary  though  it  was,  in  a  sudden  gush  of  tears. 
My  hot,  heavy  head  sank  upon  my  palms,  and  I  groaned  in  un- 
reserved homage  to  the  never-slumbering  genius  of  pain — that 
genius  which  alone  is  universal  —  which  adopts  us  from  the 
cradle  —  which  distinguishes  our  birth  by  our  tears,  hallows  the 
sentiment  of  grief  to  us  from  the  beginning,  and  maintains  the 
fountains  which  supply  its  sorrows  to  the  end.  The  lamb  skips, 
the  calf  leaps,  the  fawn  bounds,  the  bird  chirps,  the  young  colt 
fri.iks ;  all  things  but  man  enjoy  life  from  its  very  dawn.  He 
alone  is  feeble,  suffering.  His  superior  pangs  and  sorrows  are 
the  first  proofs  of  his  singular  and  superior  destiny. 

Bitter  was  the  gush  of  tears  that  rolled  from  the  surcharged 
fountains  of  my  heart;  bitter,  but  free — flowing  to  my  ra"ie£, 
at  the  moment  when  my  head  seemed  likely  to  burs^  witTi  A  vol- 
canic volume  within  it,  and  when  a  blistering  arrow  seen  3d 
slowly  to  traverse,  to  and  fro,  the  most  sore  and  sbriniKng  pas- 
sages of  my  soul.  Had  not  Edgerton  fled,  I  could  not  have 
sustained  it  much  longer.  My  passions  would  have  hurled 
aside  my  judgment,  and  mocked  that  small  policy  under  which 


2G8 

I  acted.  I  felt  that  they  were  about  to  speak,  and  rejoiced  that 
he  fled.  Had  he  remained,  I  should  most  probably  have  poured 
forth  all  my  suspicion,  all  my  hate ;  dragged  by  violence  from 
his  lips  the  confession  of  his  wrong,  and  from  his  heart  the  last 
atonement  for  it. 

At  first  I  reproached  myself  that  I  had  not  done  so.  I  ac- 
cused myself  of  tameness — the  dishonorable  tarneness  of  sub- 
mitting to  indignity — the  last  of  all  indignities — and  of  confer- 
ring calmly,  even  good-humoredly,  with  the  wrong-doer.  But 
cooler  moments  came.  A  brief  interval  sufficed — helped  by 
the  flood  of  tears  which  rushed,  hot  and  scalding,  from  my  eyes 
—  to  subdue  the  angry  spirit.  I  remembered  my  pledges  to 
the  father ;  my  unspeakable  obligations  to  him ;  and  when  I 
again  recollected  that  my  convictions  had  not  assailed  the  purity 
of  my  wife,  and,  at  most,  had  questioned  her  affections  only,  my 
forbearance  seemed  justified. 

But  could  the  matter  rest  where  it  was  ?  Impossible  !  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  It  was  clear  enough  that  the  only  thing  that 
could  be  done,  for  the  relief  of  all  parties,  was  to  be  done  by 
myself.  Edgerton  was  suffering  from  a  guilty  pursuit.  That 
pursuit,  if  still  urged,  might  be  successful,  if  not  so  at  present. 
The  constant  drip  of  the  water  will  wear  away  the  stone ;  and 
if  my  wife  could  submit  to  impertinent  advances  without  de- 
claring them  to  her  husband,  the  work  of  seduction  was  already 
half  done.  To  listen  is,  in  half  the  number  of  cases,  to  fall.  I 
must  save  her ;  I  had  not  the  courage  to  put  her  from  me.  Be- 
lieving that  she  was  still  safe,  I  resolved,  through  the  excess 
of  that  love  which  was  yet  the  predominant  passion  in  my  soul, 
in  spite  of  all  its  contradictions,  to  keep  her  so,  if  human  wit 
could  avail,  and  human  energy  carry  its  desires  into  successful 
completion. 

To  do  this,  there  was  but  one  process.  That  was  flight.  I 
must  leave  this  city — this  country.  By  doing  so,  I  remove 
my  wife  from  temptation,  remove  the  temptation  from  the  un- 
happy young  man  whom  it  is  destroying ;  and  thus,  though  by 
a  sacrifice  of  my  own  comforts  and  interests,  repay  the  debt  of 
*>T**iitude  to  my  benefactor  in  the  only  effective  manner.  It 
called  for  no  small  exercise  of  moral  courage  and  forbearance— 
no  fc-na**  "benevolence — to  come  to  this  conclusion.  It  must  be 


MEDITATED  EXILE.  269 

undersft  od  that  my  professional  business  was  becoming  particu- 
larly profitable.  I  was  rising  in  my  profession.  My  clients 
daily  increased  in  number ;  my  acquaintance  daily  increased  in 
value.  Besides,  I  loved  my  birthplace — thrice-hallowed — the 
only  region  in  my  eyes — 

"  The  spot  most  worthy  loving 
Of  all  beneath  the  sky." 

But  the  sacrifice  was  to  be  made ;  and  my  imagination  immedi- 
?  tely  grew  active  for  my  compensation,  by  describing  a  wood- 
land home  —  a  spot,  remote  from  the  crowd,  where  I  should 
carry  my  household  gods,  and  set  them  up  for  my  exclusive 
and  uninvaded  worship.  The  whole  world-wide  West  was  open 
to  me.  A  virgin  land,  rich  in  natural  wealth  and  splendor,  it 
held  forth  the  prospect  of  a  fair  field  and  no  favor  to  every  new- 
comer. There  it  is  not  possible  to  keep  in  thraldom  the  fear- 
less heart  and  the  active  intellect.  There,  no  petty  circle  of 
society  can  fetter  the  energies  or  enfeeble  the  endeavors.  No 
mocking,  stale  conventionalities  can  usurp  the  place  of  natural 
laws,  and  put  genius  and  talent  into  the  accursed  strait-jacket 
of  routine  !  Thither  will  I  go.  I  remembered  the  late  confer- 
ence with  my  friend  Kingsley,  and  the  whole  course  of  my  rea- 
soning on  the  subject  of  my  removal  was  despatched  in  half  an 
hour.  "  I  will  go  to  Alabama." 

Such  was  my  resolution.  I  was  the  man  to  make  sudden 
resolutions.  This,  however,  reasoned  upon  with  the  utmost  cir- 
cumspection, seemed  the  very  best  that  I  could  make.  My 
wife,  yet  pure,  was  rescued  from  the  danger  that  threatened 
her ;  I  was  saved  the  necessity  of  taking  a  life  so  dear  to  my 
benefactor;  and  the  unhappy  young  man  himself — the  victim 
to  a  blind  passion — having  no  longer  in  his  sight  the  tempta- 
tion which  misled  him,  would  be  left  free  to  return  to  better 
thoughts,  and  the  accustomed  habits  of  business  and  society.  I 
had  concluded  upon  my  course  in  the  brief  interval  which  fol- 
lowed my  interview  with  William  Edgerton  and  my  return 
home. 

The  next  day  I  saw  his  father.  I  communicated  the  assur- 
ance of  the  son,  and  renewed  my  own,  that  neither  drunken- 
ness nor  gaming  was  a  vice.  What  it  was  that  afflicted  him 


CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

I  did  not  pretend  to  know,  but  I  ascribed  it  to  want  of  employ- 
ment ;  a  morbid,  unenergetic  temperament ;  the  fact  that  he  was 
independent,  and  had  no  rough  necessities  to  make  him  estimate 
the  true  nature  and  the  objects  of  life;  and,  at  the  close,  quietly 
suggested  that  possibly  there  was  some  affair  of  the  heart  which 
contributed  also  to  his  suffering.  I  did  not  deny  that  his  looks 
were  wretched,  but  I  stoutly  assured  the  old  man  that  his  pa- 
rental fears  exaggerated  their  wretchedness.  We  had  much 
other  talk  on  the  subject.  When  we  were  about  to  separate  for 
the  day,  I  declared  my  own  determination  in  this  manner : — 

"  I  have  just  decided  on  a  step,  Mr.  Edgerton,  which  perhaps 
will  somewhat  contribute  to  the  improvement  of  your  son,  by 
imposing  some  additional  tasks  upon  him.  I  am  about  to  em- 
igrate for  the  southwest." 

"  You,  Clifford  ?  Impossible !  What  puts  that  into  your 
head  Vy 

It  was  something  difficult  to  furnish  any  good  reason  for  such 
a  movement.  The  only  obvious  reason  spoke  loudly  for  iny 
remaining  where  I  was. 

"  This  is  unaccountable,"  said  he.  "  You  are  doing  here  as 
few  young  men  have  done  before  you.  Your  business  increas- 
ing—  your  income  already  good  —  surely,  Clifford,  you  have  not 
thought  upon  the  matter — you  are  not  resolved." 

I  could  plead  little  other  than  a  truant  disposition  for  my 
proceeding,  but  I  soon  convinced  him  that  I  was  resolved.  He 
seemed  very  much  troubled ;  betrayed  the  most  flattering  con- 
cern in  my  interests ;  and,  renewing  his  argument  for  my  stay, 
renewed  also  his  warmest  professions  of  service." 

"  I  had  hoped,"  he  said,  "  to  have  seen  you  and  William, 
closely  united,  pursuing  the  one  path  equally  and  successfully 
together.  I  shall  have  no  hopes  of  him  if  you  leave  us." 

"  The  probability  is,  sir,  that  he  will  do  better  with  the  whole 
responsibility  of  the  office  thrown  upon  him." 

"No  !  no  !"  said  the  old  man,  mournfully.  "  I  have  no  hope 
of  him.  There  seems  to  me  a  curse  upon  wealth  always — that 
follows  and  clings  to  it,  and  never  leaves  it,  till  it  works  out  the 
ruin  of  all  the  proprietors.  See  the  number  of  our  young  men, 
springing  from  nothing,  that  make  everything  out  of  it — rise  to 
eminence  and  power — get  fortune  as  if  it  were  a  mere  sport  t« 


'  MEDITATED   EXILE.  271 

command  and  to  secure  it ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  look  at  the 
heirs  of  our  proud  families.  Profligate,  reckless,  abandoned ; 
as  if,  reasoning  from  the  supposed  wealth  of  their  parents,  they 
fancied  that  there  were  no  responsibilities  of  their  own.  I  saw 
this  danger  from  the  beginning.  I  have  striven  to  train  up  my 
son  in  the  paths  of  duty  and  constant  employment;  and  yet- 
but  complaint  is  idle.  The  consciousness  of  having  tried  my 
best  to  have  and  make  it  otherwise  is,  nevertheless,  a  consola- 
tion. When  do  you  think  to  go  ?" 

"  In  a  week  or  two  at  farthest.  I  have  but  to  rid  myself  of 
my  impediments." 

"  Always  prompt ;  but  it  is  best.  Once  resolved,  action  is  the 
moral  law.  Still,  I  wish  I  could  delay  you.  I  still  think  you 
are  committing  a  great  error.  I  can  not  understand  it.  You 
have  established  yourself.  This  is  not  easy  anywhere.  You 
will  find  it  difficult  in  a  new  country,  and  among  strangers." 

"  Nay,  sir,  more  easy  there  than  anywhere  else.  If  a  man 
has  anything  in  him,  strangers  and  a  new  country  are  the  proper 
influences  to  bring  it  out.  Friends  and  an  old  community  keep 
it  down,  suppress,  strangle  it.  This  is  the  misfortune  of  your 
son.  He  has  family,  friends  —  resources  which  defeat  all  the 
operations  of  moral  courage,  and  prevent  independence.  Ne- 
cessity is  the  moral  lever.  Do  you  forget  the  saying  of  one  of 
the  wise  men  1  '  If  you  wish  your  son  to  become  a  man,  strip 
him  naked  and  send  him  among  strangers' — in  other  words, 
throw  him  upon  his  own  resources,  and  let  him  take  care  of 
himself.  The  not  doing  this  is  the  source  of  that  misfortune 
which  only  now  you  deplored  as  so  commonly  following  the 
condition  of  the  select  and  wealthy.  I  do  not  fear  the  struggle 
in  a  new  country.  It  will  end  in  my  gaming  my  level,  be  that 
high  or  low.  Nothing,  in  such  a  region,  can  keep  a  man  from 
that." 

"  Ay.  but  the  roughness  of  those  new  countries — the  absence 
of  refinement — the  absolute  want  of  polish  and  delicacy." 

"The  roughness  will  not  offend  me,  if  it  is  manly.  The 
world  is  full  of  it.  To  be  anything,  a  man  must  not  have  too 
nice  a  stomach.  Such  a  stomach  will  make  him  recoil  from 
sights  of  misery  and  misfortune^  and  he  who  recoils  from  such 
eights,  will  be  the  last  to  relieve,  to  repair  them  But  while  I 


272  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

admit  the  roughness  and  the  want  of  polish  among  these  fron 
tier  men,  I  deny  the  want  of  delicacy.  Their  habits  are  rude 
and  simple,  perhaps,  but  their  tastes  are  pure  and  unaffected, 
and  their  hearts  in  the  right  place.  They  have  strong  affec- 
tions ;  and  strong  affections,  properly  balanced,  are  the  true 
sources  of  the  better  sort  of  delicacy.  All  other  is  merely  con- 
ventional, and  consists  of  forms  and  phrases,  which  are  very  apt 
to  keep  us  from  the  thing  itself  which  they  are  intended  to  rep- 
resent. Give  me  these  frank  men  and  women  of  the  frontier, 
while  my  own  feelings  are  yet  strong  and  earnest.  Here,  I  am 
perpetually  annoyed  by  the  struggle  to  subdue  within  the  social 
limits  the  expression  of  that  nature  which  is  for  ever  boiling 
up  within  me,  and  the  utterance  of  which  is  neither  more  nor 
less  than  the  heart's  utterance  of  the  faith  and  hope  which  are 
in  it.  We  are  told  of  those  nice  preachers  who  '  never  mention 
hell  to  ears  polite.'  They  are  the  preachers  of  your  highly- 
refined,  sentimental  society.  Whatever  hell  may  be,  they  are 
the  very  teachers  that,  by  their  mincing  forbearance,  conduct 
the  poor  soul  that  relies  on  them  into  its  jaws.  It  is  a  sort  of 
lie  not  to  use  the  properest  language  to  express  our  thoughts, 
but  rather  so  to  falsify  our  thoughts  by  a  sort  of  lack-a-daisaical 
phraseology  which  deprives  them  of  all  their  virility.  A  na- 
tion or  community  is  in  a  bad  way  for  truth,  when  there  is  a 
tacit  understanding  among  their  members  to  deal  in  the  diminu- 
tives of  a  language,  and  forbear  the  calling  of  things  by  their 
right  names.  An  Englishman,  wishing  to  designate  something 
which  is  graceful,  pleasing,  delicate,  or  fine,  uses  the  word  '  nice' 
— more  fitly  applied  to  bon-bons  or  beefsteaks,  according  to  the 
stomach  of  the  speaker.  An  energetic  form  of  speech  is  rated, 
in  fashionable  society,  as  particularly  vulgar.  In  our  larger 
American  cities,  where  they  have  much  pretension  but  little 
character,  a  leg  must  not  be  spoken  of  as  such.  You  may  say 
'  limb,'  but  not  '  leg.'  The  word  «  woman'  —  one  of  the  sweetest 
in  the  language  —  is  supposed  to  disparage  the  female  to  whom 
it  is  applied.  She  must  be  called  a  '  lady,'  forsooth ;  and  this 
word,  originally  intended  to  pacify  an  aristocratic  vanity,  has 
become  the  ordinary  appellative  of  every  member  of  that  gross 
family  which,  in  the  language  of  Shakspere,  is  only  fit  to  '  suckle 
fools  and  chronicle  small  beer.'  I  shall  be  more  free,  and  feel 


MEDITATED   EXILE.  273 

more  honest  in  that  rough  world  of  the  west ;  a  region  in  which 
the  dilettantism,  such  as  it  is,  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  is  always 
very  prompt  to  sneer  at  and  disparage  ;  but  I  look  to  see  the 
day,  even  in  our  time,  when  that  west  shall  be,  not  merely  an 
empire  herself,  but  the  nursing  mother  of  great  empires.  There 
shall  be  a  genius  born  in  that  vast,  wide  world — a  rough,  un 
licked  genius  it  may  be,  but  one  whose  words  shall  fall  upon 
the  hills  like  thunder,  and  descend  into  the  valleys  like  a  set- 
tled, heavy  rain,  which  shall  irrigate  them  all  with  a  new  life. 
Perhaps — " 

I  need  not  pursue  this.  I  throw  it  upon  paper  with  no  delib- 
eration. It  streams  from  me  like  the  rest.  Its  tone  was  some- 
what derived  from  those  peculiar,  sad  feelings,  and  that  pang- 
provoking  course  of  thought,  which  it  has  been  the  purpose  of 
this  narrative  to  embody.  In  the  expression  of  digressive  but 
earnest  notions  like  these,  I  could  momentarily  divert  myself 
from  deeper  and  more  painful  emotions.  I  had  really  gone 
through  a  great  trial:  I  say  a  great  trial  —  always  assuming 
human  indulgence  for  that  disease  of  the  blind  heart  which  led 
me  where  I  found  myself,  which  makes  me  what  I  am.  I  did 
•not  feel  lightly  the  pang  of  parting  with  my  birthplace.  I  did 
not  esteem  lightly  the  sacrifice  of  business,  comfort,  and  distinc- 
tion which  I  was  making ;  and  of  that  greater  cause  of  suffering, 
supposed  or  real,  of  the  falling  off  in  my  wife's  affection,  the 
agony  is  already  in  part  recorded.  It  may  be  permitted  to  me, 
perhaps,  under  these  circumstances  —  with  the  additional  knowl- 
edge, which  I  yet  suppressed,  that  these  sacrifices  were  to  be' 
made,  and  these  sufferings  endured,  partly  that  the  son  might  be 
saved — to  speak  with  some  unreserved  warmth  of  tone  to  the 
venerable  and  worthy  sire.  He  little  knew  how  much  of  my 
determination  to  remove  from  my  country  was  due  to  my  regard 
for  him.  I  felt  assured  that,  if  I  remained,  two  things  must  hap- 
pen. William  Edgerton  would  persevere  in  his  madness,  and  I 
should  murder  him  in  his  perseverance !  I  banished  myself  in 
regard  for  that  old  man,  and  in  some  measure  to  requite  his 
benefactions,  that  I  might  be  spared  this  necessity. 

When,  the  next  day,  I  sought  William  Edgerton  himself,  and 
declared  my  novel  determination,  he  turned  pale  as  death.  1 
could  see  that  his  lins  quivered.  I  watched  him  closely.  H* 


274  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND   HEART. 

was  evidently  racked  by  an  emotion  which  was  more  obvious 
from  the  necessity  he  was  under  of  suppressing  it.  With  con 
siderable  difficulty  he  ventured  to  ask  my  reasons  for  this 
strange  step,  and  with  averted  countenance  repeated  those  which 
his  father  had  proffered  against  my  doing  so.  I  could  see  that 
he  fain  would  have  urged  his  suggestions  more  vehemently  if 
he  dared.  But  the  conviction  that  his  wishes  were  the  fathers 
to  his  arguments  was  conclusive  to  render  him  careful  that  his 
expostulations  should  not  put  on  a  show  of  earnestness.  I  must 
•lo  William  Edgerton  the  justice  to  say  that  guilt  was  not  his 
familiar.  He  could  not  play  the  part  of  the  practised  hypocrite. 
He  had  no  powers  of  artifice.  He  could  not  wear  the  flowers 
upon  his  breast,  having  the  volcano  within  it.  Professionally, 
he  could  be  no  roue.  He  could  seem  no  other  than  he  was. 
Conscious  of  guilt,  which  he  had  not  the  moral  strength  to  coun- 
teract and  overthrow,  he  had  not,  at  the  same  time,  the  art 
necessary  for  its  concealment.  He  could  use  no  smooth,  subtle 
blandishments.  His  cheek  and  eye  would  tell  the  story  of  his 
mind,  though  it  strove  to  make  a  false  presentment.  I  do  him 
the  further  justice  to  believe  that  a  great  part  of  his  misery 
arose  from  this  consciousness  of  his  doing  wrong,  rather  than 
from  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  his  success.  I  believe  that, 
even  were  he  successful  in  the  prosecution  of  his  illicit  purposes, 
he  would  not  have  looked  or  felt  a  jot  less  miserable.  I  felt, 
while  we  conferred  together,  that  my  departure  was  perhaps 
the  best  measure  for  his  relief.  While  I  mused  upon  his  char- 
acter and  condition,  my  anger  yielded  in  part  to  commiseration. 
I  remembered  the  morning-time  of  our  boyhood  —  when  we 
stood  up  for  conflict  with  our  young  enemies,  side  by  side — 
obeyed  the  same  rallying-cry,  recognised  the  same  objects,  and 
were  a  sort  of  David  and  Jonathan  to  one  another.  Those 
days! — they  soothed  and  softened  me  while  I  recalled  them. 
My  tone  became  less  keen,  my  language  less  tinctured  with 
sarcasm,  when  I  thought  of  these  things ;  and  I  thought  of  our 
separation  without  thinking  of  its  cause. 

"  I  leave  you,  Edgerton,  with  one  regret — not  that  we  part; 
for  life  is  full  of  partings,  and  the  strong  mind  must  be  recon- 
ciled with  them,  or  it  is  nothing — but  that  I  leave  you  so  un 
like  your  former  self.  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  yoi." 


MEDITATED   EXILE.  275 

I  gave  him  my  hand  as  as  I  spoke.  He  did  not  grasp — he 
rather  shrunk  from  it.  An  uncontrollable  hurst  of  feeling 
seemed  suddenly  to  gush  from  him  as  he  spoke : — 

"Take  no  heed  of  me,  Clifford — I  am  not  worthy  of  ymar 
thought." 

"  Ha  !     What  do  you  mean  7" 

He  spoke  hastily,  in  manifest  discomfiture : — 

"  I  am  worthy  of  no  man's  thought." 

"  Pshaw  !  you  are  a  hypochondriac." 

"  Would  it  were  that ! — But  you  go ! — when  1" 

"  In  a  week,  perhaps." 

"So  soon?  So  very  soon?  Do  you — do  you  carry  your 
family  with  you  at  once  ?" 

There  was  great  effort  to  speak  this  significant  inquiry.  I 
perceived  that.  I  perceived  that  his  eyes  were  on  the  ground 
while  it  was  made.  The  question  was  offensive  to  me.  It  had 
a  strange  and  painful  significance.  It  recalled  the  whole  cause, 
the  hitter  cause  of  my  resolve  for  exile ;  and  I  could  not  con- 
trol the  altered  tones  of  my  voice  in  answering,  which  I  did 
with  some  causticity  of  feeling,  which  necessarily  entered  into 
my  utterance. 

"  Family,  surely  !  My  wife  only  !  No  great  charge,  I'm 
thinking,  and  her  health  needs  an  early  change.  Would  you 
have  me  leave  her  ?  I  have  no  other  family,  you  know  !" 

The  dialogue,  carried  on  with  restraint  before,  was  shortened 
by  this ;  and,  after  a  few  business  remarks,  which  were  neces- 
sary to  our  office  concerns,  he  pleaded  an  engagement  to  get 
away.  He  left  me  with  some  soreness  upon  my  mind,  which 
formed  its  expression  in  a  brief  soliloquy. 

"  You  would  have  the  path  made  even  freer  than  before, 
would  you  ?  It  does  not  content  you,  these  long  morning  medi- 
tations— these  pretended  labors  of  the  painting-room,  the 
suspicious  husband  withdrawn,  and  the  wife,  neither  scorning 
nor  consenting,  willing  to  believe  in  that  devotion  to  the  art 
which  is  properly  a  devotion  to  herself?  These  are  not  suffi- 
cient opportunities,  eh  ?  There  were  more  room  for  landscape, 
it  this  Othello  wer*  ;n  Alabama — pitching  his  Biases,  ana 
building  his  log-cabin  for  the  reception  of  that  divinity, 
finds  the  worship  very  sufficient  where  she  is !  We  shall 


276  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

appoint  you,  Mr.  Edgerton ! — Ah!  could  I  but  know  all 
Could  I  be  sure  that  she  did  love  him  !  Could  I  be  sure  that 
she  did  not !  That  is  the  curse — that  doubt ! — Will  it  remain 
BO?  No!  no!  Once  removed  —  once  in  those  forest  regions, 
it  can  not  be  that  she  will  repine  for  anything.  She  must  love 
me  then  —  she  will  feel  anew  the  first  fond  passion.  She  will 
forget  these  passing  fancies.  They  will  pass !  She  is  young. 
The  image  will  haunt  her  no  longer  -at  least,  it  will  no  longer 
haunt  me !" 

So  I  spoke,  but  I  was  not  so  sure  of  that  last.  The  doubt 
did  not  trouble  me,  however.  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof.  But  I  had  another  test  yet  to  try.  I  wished  to  see 
how  Julia  would  receive  the  communication  of  my  purpose. 
As  yet  she  knew  nothing  of  my  contemplated  departure.  "  It 
will  surprise  her,"  I  thought  to  myself.  "  Tn  that  surprise  she 
will  show  how  much  our  removal  will  distress  her!" 

But  when  I  made  known  to  her  my  intention,  the  surprise 
was  all  my  own.  The  communication  did  not  seemed  to  distress 
her  at  all.  Surprise  her  it  did,  but  the  surprise  seemed  a  pleasant 
one.  It  spoke  out  in  a  sudden  flashing  of  the  eye,  a  gentle 
smiling  of  the  mouth,  which  was  equally  unexpected  and  grate 
ful  to  my  heart. 

"  I  am  delighted  with  the  idea  I"  she  exclaimed,  putting  her 
arms  about  my  neck.  "  I  think  we  shall  be  so  happy  there.  I 
long  to  get  away  from  this  place." 

"  Indeed !     But  are  you  serious  1" 

"  To  be  sure." 

"  I  was  apprehensive  it  might  distress  you." 

"  Oh  1  no  !  no  !  I  have  been  dull  and  tired  here,  for  a  long 
while ;  and  I  thought,  when  you  told  me  that  Mr.  Kingsley  had 
gone  to  Alabama,  how  delightful  it  would  be  if  we  could  go 
too." 

w  But  you  never  told  me  that." 

«No." 

"  Nor  even  looked  it,  Julia." 

"Surely  not — I  should  have  been  loath  to  have  you  think, 
while  your  business  was  so  prosperous,  and  you  seemed  so  well 
satisfied  here,  that  I  had  any  discontent/ 

"  I  satisfied !"  I  said  this  rather  to  myeelf  than  her. 


MEDITATED   EXILE.  277 

"  Yes,  were  you  not  ?  I  had  no  reason  to  think  otherwise. 
Nay,  I  feared  you  were  too  well  satisfied,  for  I  have  seen  BO 
little  of  you  of  late.  I'm  sure  I  wished  we  were  anywhere,  so 
that  you  could  find  your  home  more  to  your  liking." 

"  And  have  such  notions  really  filled  your  brain,  Julia  ?" 

«  Really." 

"And  you  have  found  me  a  stranger— you  have  mis- 
sed me  V 

11  Ah  !  do  you  not  know  it,  Edward  ?" 

"  You  shall  have  no  need  to  reproach  me  hereafter.  We  will 
go  to  Alabama,  and  live  wholly  for  one  another.  I  shall  leave 
you  in  business  time  only,  and  hurry  back  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"  Ah,  promise  me  that  ?" 

"I  do!" 

"  We  shall  be  so  happy  then.  Then  we  shall  take  our  old 
rambles,  Edward,  though  in  new  regions,  and  I  will  resume  the 
pencil,  if  you  wish  it." 

This  was  said  timidly. 

"  To  be  sure  I  wish  it.  But  why  do  you  say  *  resume'  1  Have 
you  not  been  painting  all  along  ?" 

"  No !  I  have  scarcely  smeared  canvass  in  the  last  two 
months  " 

"  But  you  have  been  sketching  ?" 

"No!" 

"  What  employed  you  then  in  the  studio  ?  How  have  yuU 
passed  your  mornings  ?" 

This  inquiry  was  made  abruptly,  but  it  did  not  disturb  her. 
Her  answer  was  strangely  satisfactory. 

"  I  have  scarcely  looked  in  upon  the  studio  in  all  that  time." 

I  longed  to  ask  what  Edgerton  had  done  with  himself,  and 
whether  he  had  been  suffered  to  employ  himself  alone,  in  his 
morning  visits,  but  my  tongue  faltered — I  somehow  dared  not 
Still,  it  was  something  to  have  her  assurance  that  she  had  not 
found  her  attractions  in  that  apartment  in  which  my  jealous 
fancy  had  assumed  that  she  took  particular  delight.  She  had 
spoken  with  the  calmness  of  innocence,  and  I  was  too  happy  to 
believe  her.  I  put  my  arms  about  her  waist. 

"  Yes,  we  will  renew  the  old  habits,  for  I  suppose  that  busi- 
ness there  will  be  less  pressing,  less  exacting?,  than  I  have  found 


278  CONFJESSION,  OE  THE  BLIND  HEABT. 

it  here.  We  will  take  our  long  walks,  Julia,  and  make  up  for 
lost  time  in  new  sketches.  You  have  thought  me  a  truant,  Julia 
— neglectful  hitherto  !  Have  you  not  ?" 

"Ah,  Edward  1" — Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  a  smile,  like 
a  rainbow,  made  them  bright. 

"Say,  did  you  not  ?" 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  me  if  I  confess  I  thought  you  very 
much  altered  in  some  respects.  I  was  fearful  I  had  vexed  you." 

"  You  shall  have  no  more  reason  to  fear.  We  shall  be  the 
babes  in  the  wood  together.  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  quite  happy, 
left  to  ourselves.  No  doubts,  no  fears  —  nothing  but  love.  And 
you  are  really  willing  to  go  ?" 

"  Willing  !     I  wish  it !     I  can  get  ready  in  a  day." 

"  You  have  but  a  week.  But,  have  you  no  reluctance  t  Is 
there  nothing  that  you  regret  to  leave  ?  Speak  freely  r  Julia. 
Your  mother,  your  friends — would  you  not  prefer  to  rvrnwa 
with  them  T 

She  placed  her  hands  on  my  shoulders,  laid  her  head  close  to 
my  bosom  and  murmured — how  softly,  how  sweetly — in  the 
touching  language  of  the  Scripture  damsel. 

"  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  or  to  refrain  from  following 
after  thee;  for  whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go,  and  where  thou 
lodgest,  I  will  lodge.  Thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy 
God  my  God !" 

I  folded  her  with  tremulous  but  deep  joy  in  my  embrace ;  and 
in  that  sweet  moment  of  peace,  I  wondered  that  I  ever  should 
have  questioned  the  faith  of  such  a  woman 


THE  BITTEIl  IN   THE  CUP  OF  JOY.  279 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"AND  STILL  THE    BITTER    IN   THE   CUP   OF   JOY." 

ONCE  more  I  had  sunshine.  The  clouds  seemed  to  depart  as 
suddenly  as  they  had  risen,  and  that  same  rejoicing  and  rosy 
light  which  had  encircled  the  brow  of  manhood  at  its  dawn 
long  shrouded,  seemingly  lost  for  ever,  and  swallowed  up  in 
darkness  —  came  out  as  softly  and  quietly  in  the  maturer  day, 
as  if  its  sweet  serene  had  never  known  even  momentary  ob- 
scuration. 

Love,  verily,  is  the  purple  light  of  youth.  If  it  abides,  bles- 
sing arid  blessed,  with  the  unsophisticated  heart,  youth  never 
leaves  us.  Gray  brows  make  not  age — the  feeble  step,  the 
wrinkled  visage,  these  indicate  the  progress  of  time,  but  not  the 
passage  of  youth.  Happy  hearts  keep  us  in  perpetual  spring, 
and  the  glow  of  childhood  without  its  weaknesses  is  ours  to  the  fi- 
nal limit  of  seventy.  The  sense  of  desolation,  the  pang  of  denial, 
the  baffled  hope,  and  the  defrauded  love,  these  constitute  the 
only  age  that  should  ever  give  the  heart  a  pang.  I  can  fancy  a 
good  man  advancing  through  all  the  mortal  stages  from  seven- 
teen to  seventy-five,  and  crowned  by  the  sympathies  of  cor- 
responsive  affections,  simply  going  on  from  youth  to  youth, 
ending  at  last  in  youth's  perfect  immortality ! 

The  hope  of  this — not  so  much  a  hope  as  an  instinct — is  the 
faith  of  our  boyhood.  The  boy,  as  the  father  of  the  man, 
transmits  this  hope  to  riper  years ;  but  if  the  experience  of  the 
day  correspond  not  with  the  promise  of  the  dawn,  how  rapidly 
old  age  comes  upon  us !  White  hairs,  lean  cheeks,  withered 
muscles,  feeble  steps,  and  that  dull,  dead  feeling  about  the  heart 
—  that  utter  abandonment  of  cheer — which  would  be  despair 
were  it  not  for  a  certain  blunted  sensibility — a  sort  of  drowsy 


280  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

indifference  to  all  things  that  the  day  brings  forth,  which,  as  it 
takes  from  life  the  excitement  of  every  passion,  leaves  it  free 
from  the  sting  of  any.  Yet,  were  not  the  tempest  better  than 
the  calm  ?  Who  would  not  prefer  to  be  driven  before  the 
treacherous  hurricane  of  the  blue  gulf,  than  to  linger  midway 
on  its  shoreless  waters,  and  behold  their  growing  stagnation 
from  day  to  day  ]  The  apathy  of  the  passions  is  the  most  terri- 
ble form  in  which  age  makes  its  approaches. 

With  an  earnest,  sanguine  temperament,  such  as  mine,  there 
is  little  danger  of  such  apathy,  The  danger  is  not  from  leth- 
argy but  madness.  I  had  escaped  this  danger.  It  was  sur- 
prising, even  to  myself,  how  suddenly  my  spirits  had  arisen 
from  the  pressure  that  had  kept  them  down.  In  a  moment,  as 
it  were,  that  mocking  troop  of  fears  and  sorrows  which  envi- 
roned me,  took  their  departure.  It  seemed  that  it  was  only 
necessary  for  me  to  know  that  I  was  about  to  lose  the  presence 
of  William  Edgerton  to  find  this  relief. 

And  yet,  how  idle  !  With  an  intense  egcfisme,  such  as  mine, 
I  should  conjure  up  an  Edgerton  in  the  deepest  valleys  of  our 
country.  We  have  our  gods  and  devils  in  our  own  hearts. 
The  nature  of  the  deities  we  worship  depends  upon  our  own. 
In  a  savage  state,  the  Deity  is  savage,  and  expects  bloody 
sacrifices  ;  with  the  progress  of  civilization  his  attributes  incline 
to  mercy.  The  advent  of  Jesus  Christ  indicated  the  advance 
of  the  Hebrews  to  a  higher  sense  of  the  human  nature.  It  was 
the  advent  of  the  popular  principle,  which  has  been  advancing 
steadily  ever  since  and  keeping  due  pace  with  the  progress  of 
Christian  education.  The  people  were  rising  at  the  expense  of 
the  despotism  which  had  kept  them  down.  It  does  not  affect 
the  truth  of  this  te  show  that  the  polish  of  the  Jewish  nation 
was  lessened  at  this  period.  Nay,  rather  proves  it,  since  the 
diffusion  of  a  truth  or  a  power  must  always  lessen  its  intensity 
In  teaching,  for  the  first  time,  the  doctrine  of  the  soul's  immor- 
tality, the  Savior  laid  the  foundation  of  popular  rights,  in  the 
elevation  of  the  common  humanity — since  he  thus  showed  the 
equal  importance,  in  the  sight  of  God,  of  every  soul  that  had 
ever  taken  shape  beneath  his  hands. 

The  demon  which  had  vexed  and  tortured  me  was  a  demon 
of  my  own  soliciting — of  my  own  creation.    But,  I  knew  not 


THE  BITTER  IN  THE  CUP  OP  JOY.  281 

this.  I  congratulated  myself  on  escaping  from  him.  Blind 
fancy! — I  little  knew  the  insidious  pertinacity  of  this  demon — 
this  demon  of  the  blind  heart,  I  .little  knew  the  nature  of  his 
existence,  and  how  much  he  drew  his  nutriment  from  the  re- 
cesses of  my  own  nature.  He  could  spare,  or  seem  to  spare, 
the  victim  of  whom  he  was  so  sure  ;  and  hy  a  sort  of  levity,  in 
no  ways  unaccountable,  since  we  see  it  in  the  play  of  cat  with 
mouse,  could  indulge  with  temporary  libsrty,  the  poor  captive 
of  whom  he  was  at  any  moment  certain.  I  congratulated  my- 
self on  my  escape ;  but  I  was  not  so  well  pleased  with  the  con- 
gratulations of  others.  I  was  doomed  to  endure  those  of  my 
exemplary  mother-in-law,  Mrs.  Delaney.  That  woman  had  her 
devil — a  worse  devil,  though  not  more  troublesome,  I  think, 
than  mine.  She  said  to  me,  when  she  heard  of  my  purpose  of 
removal :  "  You  are  right  to  remove.  It  is  only  prudent.  Pity 
you  had  not  gone  some  months  ago." 

I  read  her  meaning,  where  her  language  was  ambiguous,  in 
her  sharp,  leering  eyes — full  of  significance — an  expression  of 
mysterious  intelligence,  which,  mingled  with  a  slight,  sinister 
smile  upon  her  lips,  for  a  moment,  brought  a  renewal  of  all  my 
tortures  and  suspicions.  She  saw  the  annoyance  which  I  felt, 
and  strove  to  increase  it.  I  know  not  —  I  will  not  repeat — the 
occasional  innuendos  which  she  allowed  herself  to  utter  in  the 
brief  space  of  a  twenty  minutes'  interview.  It  is  enough  to  say 
that  nothing  could  be  more  evident  than  her  desire  to  vex  me 
with  the  worst  pangs  which  a  man  can  know,  even  though  her 
success  in  the  attempt  was  to  be  attained  at  the  expense  of  her 
daughter's  peace  of  mind  and  reputation.  I  do  not  believe  that 
she  ever  hinted  to  another,  what  she  clearly  enough  insinuated 
as  a  cause  of  fear  to  me.  Her  purpose  was  to  goad  me  to  mad- 
ness, and  in  her  witless  malice,  I  do  believe  she  was  utterly  un- 
conscious of  the  evil  that  might  accrue  to  the  child  of  her  own 
womb  from  her  base  and  cruel  suggestions.  I  wished  to  get 
from  her  these  suggestions  in  a  more  distinct  form.  I  wished  at 
the  same  time,  to  deprive  her  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  that  I 
understood  her.  I  restrained  myself  accordingly,  though  the 
vulture  was  then  again  at  my  vitals. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Delaney  ?  Why  is  it  a  pity  that 
I  hadn't  gone  months  ago  2" 


282  CONFESSION,  OB  THE  BLIND  HEABT. 

"  Oh  !  that's  enough  for  me  to  know.    I  have  my  reasons." 

"  But,  will  you  not  suffer  me  to  know  them  I  I  am  conscioui 
of  no  evil  that  has  arisen  from  my  not  going  sooner." 

"  Indeed  !  Well,  if  you  are  not,  I  can  only  say  you're 
not  so  keen-sighted  a  lawyer  as  I  thought  you  were.  That's 
all." 

"  If  you  think  I  would  have  made  out  better,  got  more  prac- 
tice, and  made  more  money  in  Alabama,  that,  I  must  tell  you, 
has  been  long  since  my  own  opinion." 

"  No  !  I  don't  mean  that — it  has  no  regard  to  business  and 
money -making  —  what  I  mean." 

"  Ah  !  what  can  it  have  regard  to  ?  You  make  me  curious, 
Mrs.  Delaney." 

"  Well,  that  may  be ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  satisfy  your  curios- 
ity. I  thought  you  had  seen  enough  for  yourself.  I'm  sure 
you're  the  only  one  that  has  not  seen." 

"  Upon  my  soul,  Mrs.  Delaney,  you  are  quite  a  mystery." 

«  Oh  !  am  I t" 

"  I  can't  dive  into  such  depths.     I'm  ignorant." 

"  Tell  those  that  know  you  no  better.  But  you  can't  blind  me. 
I  know  that  you  know — and  more  than  that,  lean  guess  what's 
carrying  you  to  Alabama.  It's  not  law  business,  I  know  that.'' 

I  was  vexed  enough,  as  may  be  supposed,  at  this  malicious 
pertinacity,  but  I  kept  down  my  struggling  gorge  with  a  resolu- 
tion which  I  had  been  compelled  often  enough  to  exercise  be- 
fore ;  and  quietly  ended  the  interview  by  taking  my  hat  and 
departure,  as  I  said : — 

"  You  are  certainly  a  very  sagacious  lady,  Mrs.  Delaney ; 
but  I  must  leave  you,  and  wait  your  own  time  to  make  these 
mysterious  revelations.  My  respects  to  Mr.  Delaney.  Good 
morning." 

"  Oh,  good  morning ;  but  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Clifford,  if  you 
don't  see,  it's  not  because  you  can't.  Other  people  can  see 
without  trying." 

TheJezabel! 

My  preparations  were  soon  completed.  I  worked  with  the 
spirit  of  enthusiasm — I  had  so  many  motives  to  be  active ;  and, 
subordinate  among  these,  but  still  important,  I  should  get  out  of 
tLs  reach  of  this  very  woman.  I  could  not  beat  her  myselfi 


THE  BITTER  IN  THE  CUP  OP  JOY.  283 

but  I  wished  her  husband  might  do  it,  and  not  to  anticipate  my 
own  story,  he  did  so  in  less  than  three  months  after.  He  was 
the  man  too,  to  perform  such  a  labor  with  unction  and  emphasis. 
A  vigorous  man  with  muscles  like  bolt-ropes,  and  limLs  that 
would  have  been  respectable  in  the  days  of  Goliah.  I  met 
him  on  leaving  the  steps  of  Mrs.  Delaney's  lodgings,  and — 
thinking  of  the  marital  office  I  wished  him  to  perform — I  was 
rejoiced  to  discover  that  he  was  generously  drunk — in  the 
proper  spirit  for  such  deeds  in  the  flesh. 

He  seized  my  hand  with  quite  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  swore 
I  was  a  likely  fellow,  and  somehow  he  had  a  liking  for  me. 

"  Though,  to  be  sure,  my  dear  fellow,  it's  not  Mrs.  Delaney 
that  loves  any  bone  in  your  skin.  She's  a  lady  that,  like  most 
of  the  dear  creatures,  has  a  way  of  her  own  for  thinking.  She 
does  her  own  thinking,  and  what  can  a  woman  know  about 
such  a  business.  It's  to  please  her  that  I  sit  by  and  say 
nothing ;  and  a  wife  must  be  permitted  some  indulgence  while 
the  moon  lasts,  which  the  poets  tell  us,  is  made  out  of  honey : 
but  it's  never  a  long  moon  in  these  days,  and  a  small  cloud  soon 
puts  an  end  to  it.  Wait  till  that  time,  Mr.  Clifford,  and  I'll 
put  her  into  a  way  of  thinking,  that'll  please  you  and  myself 
much  better." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  good  opinion,  and  civilly  wished  him — 
as  it  was  a  matter  which  seemed  to  promise  him  so  much  satisfac- 
tion— that  the  duration  of  the  honeymoon  should  be  as  short 
as  possible.  He  thanked  me  affectionately — grasped  my  hand 
with  the  squeeze  of  a  blacksmith,  ahd  entreated  that  I  should 
go  back  arid  take  a  drink  of  punch  with  him.  As  an  earnest 
of  what  he  could  give  me,  he  pulled  a  handful  of  lemons  from 
his  pocket  which  he  had  bought  from  a  shop  by  the  way.  I 
need  not  say  I  expressed  my  gratitude,  though  I  declined  his 
invitation.  I  then  told  him  I  was  about  to  remove  to  Alabama, 
and  he  immediately  proposed  to  go  along  with  me.  I  reminded 
him  that  he  was  just  married,  and  it  would  be  expected  of  him 
that  he  would  see  the  honeymoon  out. 

"  Ah,  faith !"  he  replied,  "  and  there's  sense  in  what  you  say ; 
it  must  be  done,  I  suppose ;  but  devil  a  bit,  to  my  thinking, 
does  any  moon  last  a  month  in  this  climate ;  and  the  first  cloudy 
weather,  d'yo  see,  and  I'm  after  you." 


284  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEABT. 

It  was  difficult  to  escape  from  the  generous  embraces  of  my 
ardent  father-in-law ;  and  the  whole  street  witnessed  them. 

That  afternoon  I  spent  in  part  with  the  Edgertons.  I  went 
soon  after  my  own  dinner  and  found  the  family  at  theirs, 
William  Edgerton  was  present.  The  old  man  insisted  that  I 
should  take  a  seat  at  the  table  and  join  them  in  a  bottle  of  wine, 
which  I  did.  It  was  a  family,  bearing  apparently  all  the 
elements  within  itself  of  a  happiness  the  most  perfect  and  pro- 
found. Particularly  an  amiable  family.  Yet  there  was  no  in- 
sipidity. The  father  has  already  been  made  known;  the  son 
should  be  by  this  time;  the  mother  was  one  of  those  strong- 
minded,  simple  women,  whose  mind  may  be  expressed  by  its 
most  striking  characteristic — independence.  She  had  that 
most  obvious  trait  of  aristocratic  breeding,  a  quiet,  indefinable, 
easy  dignity  —  a  seemingly  natural  quality,  easy  itself,  that  puts 
everybody  at  ease,  .and  yet  neither  in  itself  nor  in  others  suffer- 
ed the  slightest  approach  to  be  made  to  unbecoming  familiarity. 
A  sensible,  gentlewoman — literally  gentle — yet  so  calm,  so 
firm,  you  would  have  supposed  she  had  never  known  one  emo- 
tion calculated  to  stir  the  sweet,  glass-like  placidity  of  her  de- 
portment. 

And  yet,  amidst  all  this  calm  placidity,  with  an  eye  looking 
benevolence,  and  a  considerateness  that  took  note  of  your  small- 
est want,  she  sustained  the  pangs  of  one  yearning  for  her  first 
born ;  dissatisfied  and  disappointed  in  his  career,  and  apprehen- 
sive for  his  fate.  The  family  was  no  longer  happy.  The  worm 
was  busy  in  all  their  hearts.  They  treated  me  kindly,  but  it 
was  obvious  that  they  were  suffering.  A  visible  constraint 
chilled  and  baffled  conversation ;  and  I  could  see  the  deepening 
anxieties  which  clouded  the  face  of  the  mother,  whenever  her 
eye  wandered  in  the  direction  of  her  son.  This  it  did,  in  spite,  I 
am  convinced,  of  her  endeavors  to  prevent  it. 

I,  too,  could  now  look  in  the  same  quarter.  My  feelings  were 
less  bitter  than  they  were,  and  William  Edgerton  shared  in  the 
change.  I  did  not  the  less  believe  him  to  have  done  wrong,  but, 
in  the  renewed  conviction  of  my  wife's  purity,  I  could  forgive 
him,  and  almost  think  he  was  sufficiently  punished  in  enter 
taining  affections  which  were  without  hope.  Punished  he  was, 
whether  by  hopelessness  or  guilt,  and  punished  terribly.  I 


THE  BITTER  IN  THE  CUP  OP  JOY.  285 

could  see  a  difference  for  the  worse  in  his  appearance  since  I 
had  last  conferred  with  him.  He  was  haggard  and  spiritless  to 
the  last  degree.  He  had  few  words  while  we  sat  at  tahle,  and 
these  were  spoken  only  after  great  effort ;  and,  regarding  him 
now  with  less  temper  than  before;  it  seemed  to  me  that  his 
parents  had  not  exaggerated  the  estimate  which  they  had  form- 
ed of  his  miserable  appearance.  He  looked  very  much  like 
one,  who  had  abandoned  himself  to  nightly  dissipation,  and  those 
excesses  of  mind  and  body,  which  sap  from  both  the  saving  and  ele- 
vating substance.  I  did  not  wonder  that  the  old  man  ascribed  his 
condition  to  the  bottle  and  the  gaming-table.  But  that  I  knew 
better,  such  would  most  probably  have  been  my  own  conclusion. 
The  conversation  was  not  general  —  confined  chiefly  to  Mr. 
Edgerton  the  elder  and  myself.  Mrs.  Edgerton  remained  awhile 
after  the  cloth  had  been  withdrawn,  joining  occasionally  in  what 
was  said,  and  finally  left  us,  though  with  still  a  lingering,  and  a 
last  look  toward  her  son,  which  clearly  told  where  her  heart 
was.  William  Edgerton  followed  her,  after  a  brief  interval, 
and  I  saw  no  more  of  him,  though  I  remained  for  more  than  an 
hour.  He  had  said  but  little.  It  was  with  some  evident  effort, 
that  he  had  succeeded  in  uttering  some  general  observation  on 
the  subject  of  the  Alabama  prairies  —  those  beautiful "  gardens 
of  the  desert," 

"  For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name." 

My  removal  had  been  the  leading  topic  of  our  discourse,  and 
when  I  declared  my  intention  to  start  on  the  very  next  day, 
and  that  the  present  was  a  farewell  visit,  the  emotion  of  the 
son  visibly  increased.  Soon  after  he  left  the  room.  When  I 
was  alone  with  the  father,  he  took  occasion  to  renew  his  offer  of 
service,  and,  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  take  from  the  offer  its  tone 
of  service.  He  seemed  rather  to  ask  a  favor  than  to  suggest  one. 
Money  he  could  spare — the  repayment  should  be  at  my  own 
leisure — and  my  bond  would  be  preferable,  he  was  pleased  to 
say,  to  that  of  any  one  he  knew.  I  thanked  him  with  becom- 
ing feelings,  though,  for  the  present,  I  declined  his  assistance.  I 
pledged  myself,  however,  should  circumstances  make  it  neceR- 
sary  for  me  to  seek  a  loan,  to  turn,  in  the  first  instance,  to  him. 
He  had  been  emphatically  my  friend — the  friend,  sole,  singular 


286  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

—  never  fluctuating  in  his  regards,  and  never  stopping  to  calcu- 
late the  exact  measure  of  my  deserts.  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
too  much  forbear  in  reference  to  the  son,  having  in  view  the  gen- 
erous friendship  of  the  father. 

That  day,  and  the  night  which  followed  it,  was  a  long  period 
with  me.  I  had  to  see  many  acquaintances,  and  attend  to  a 
thousand  small  matters.  I  was  on  my  feet  the  whole  day,  and 
even  when  the  night  came  I  had  no  rest.  I  was  in  the  city  till 
near  eleven  o'clock.  When  I  got  home  I  found  that  my  wife 
had  done  her  share  of  the  tasks.  She  had  completed  her  prep- 
arations. Our  luggage  was  all  ready  for  removal.  To  her  1 
had  assigned  the  labor  of  packing  up  her  pictures,  her  materials 
for  painting,  her  clothes,  and  such  other  matters  as  she  desired  to 
carry  with  us,  to  our  new  place  of  abode.  The  rest  was  to  be 
sold  by  a  friend  after  our  departure,  and  the  proceeds  remitted. 
I  knew  I  should  need  them  all.  Most  of  our  baggage  was  to 
be  sent  by  water.  We  travelled  in  a  private  carriage,  and  con- 
sequently, could  take  little.  Julia,  unlike  most  women,  was 
willing  to  believe  with  me  that  impediments  are  the  true  name 
for  much  luggage ;  and,  with  a  most  unfeminine  habit,  she  could 
limit  herself  without  reluctance  to  the  merest  necessities.  We 
had  no  bandboxes,  baskets,  or  extra  bundles,  to  be  stuffed  here 
and  there,  filling  holes  and  corners,  and  crowding  every  space, 
which  should  be  yielded  entirely  to  the  limbs  of  the  traveller. 
Though  sensitive  and  delicate  in  a  great  degree,  she  had  yet 
that  masculine  sense  which  teaches  that,  in  the  fewness  of  our 
wants  lies  our  truest  source  of  independence;  and  she  could 
make  herself  ready  for  taking  stage  or  steamboat  in  quite  as 
short  a  time  as*  myself. 

Her  day's  work  had  exhausted  her.  She  retired,  and  when 
I  went  up  to  the  chamber,  she  already  seemed  to  sleep.  I  could 
not.  Fatigue,  which  had  produced  exhaustion,  had  baffled  sleep. 
Extreme  weariness  becomes  too  much  like  a  pain  to  yield  readi- 
ly to  repose.  The  moment  that  exercise  benumbs  the  frame, 
makes  the  limbs  ache,  the  difficulty  increases  of  securing  slum- 
ber. I  felt  weary,  but  I  was  restless  also.  I  felt  that  it  would 
be  vain  for  me  to  go  to  bed.  Accordingly,  I  placed  myself  be- 
side the  window,  and  looked  out  meditatingly  upon  the  broad 
lake  which  lay  before  our  dwelling. 


THE  BITTER  IN  THE  CUP  OP  JOY.  287 

The  night  was  very  calm  and  beautiful.  The  waters  from 
the  lake  were  falling.  Tide  was  going  out,  and  the  murmuring 
clack  of  a  distant  sawmill  added  a  strange  sweetness  to  the 
hour,  and  mingled  harmoniously  with  the  mysterious  goings  on 
of  midnight.  The  starlight,  not  brilliant,  was  yet  very  soft  and 
touching.  Isolated  and  small  clouds,  like  dismembered  ravens' 
wings,  flitted  lightly  along  the  edge  of  the  western  horizon, 
shooting  out  at  intervals  brief,  brilliant  flashes  of  lightning. 
There  was  a  flickering  breeze  that  played  with  the  shrubbery 
beneath  my  window,  making  a  slight  stir  that  did  not  break 
the  quiet  of  the  scene,  and  gave  a  graceful  movement  to  the 
slender  stems  as  they  waved  to  and  fro  beneath  its  pressure. 
A  noble  pride  of  India*  rose  directly  before  my  eyes  to  the 
south — its  branches  stretching  almost  from  within  touch  of  the 
dwelling,  over  the  fence  of  a  neighbor.  The  whole  scene  was 
fairy-like.  I  should  find  it  indescribable.  It  soothed  my  feel- 
ings. I  had  been  the  victim  of  a  long  and  painful  moral 
conflict.  At  length  I  had  a  glimmering  of  repose.  Events,  in 
the  last  few  days  —  small  events  which,  in  themselves  denoted 
nothing — had  yet  spoken  peace  to  my  feelings.  My  heart 
was  m  thai  dieamy  state  of  languor,  such  as  the  body  enjoys 
under  tl-.e  gradually  growing  power  of  the  anodyne,  in  which 
the  breaxh  of  the  t'uminer  wind  brings  a  language  of  luxury,  and 
the  mo  i  ..GipericU  si^Lts  and  sounds  in  nature  minister  to  a  ca- 
pacity of  enjoy u  eat,  which  is  not  the  less  intoxicating  and 
sweet  because  il  id  *ibdued.  I  mused  upon  my  own  heart, 
upon  the  hea/t  which  1  so  much  loved  and  had  so  much  dis- 
trusted—  upon  life,  its  strange  visions,  delusive  hopes,  and  the 
sweet  efficacy  of  mere  shadows  in  promoting  one's  happiness 
&t  last.  Then  came,  by  natural  degrees,  the  thought  of  that 
strange  mysterious  union  of  light  and  darkness — life  and  death 
— the  shadows  that  we  are;  the  substances  that  we  are  yet  to 
be.  The  futnre!  —  still  it  rose  before  me — but  the  darkness 
upon  it  alone  showed  me  it  was  there.  It  did  not  offend  me, 
however,  for  my  heart  was  glowing  in  a  present  starlight.  It 
was  the  hour  of  hopes  rather  than  of  fears ;  and  in  the  mere 

*  China  tree ;  the  melia  azcdaracha  of  botanists.  A  tree  peculiar  to  th« 
south,  of  singular  beauty,  and  held  in  high  esteem  as  a  shade-tree. 


288  CONFESSION,   Oil  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

prospect  of  transition  to  the  new  —  such  is  the  elastic  nature  of 
youth  —  I  had  agreed  to  forget  every  pang  whether  of  idea  of 
fact,  which  had  vexed  and  tortured  me  in  the  perished  past. 
My  musings  were  all  tender  yet  joyful — they  partook  of  that 
"joy  of  grief  of  which  the  bard  of  Fingal  tells  us.  I  felt  a 
big  tear  gathering  in  my  eye,  I  knew  not  wherefore.  I  felt  my 
heart  growing  feeble,  with  the  same  delight  which  one  would 
feel  at  suddenly  recovering  a  great  treasure  which -had  been 
supposed  for  ever  lost.  I  fancied  that  I  had  recovered  my  treas- 
ure, and  I  rose  quietly,  went  to  the  bed  where  Julia  lay 
sleeping  peacefully,  and  kissed  her  pale  but  lovely  cheeks. 
She  started,  but  did  not  waken— a  gentle  sigh  escaped  her  lips, 
and  they  murmured  with  some  indistinct  syllables  which  I  failed 
to  distinguish.  At  that  moment  the  notes  of  a  flute  rose  softly 
from  the  grove  without. 


RENEWED  AGONIES. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

RENEWED   AGONIES. 

IN  that  same  moment  my  pangs  were  all  renewed  ;  my  repose  of 
mind  departed ;  once  more  my  heart  was  on  fire,  my  spirit  filled 
with  vague  doubts,  grief,  and  commotion.  The  soft,  sweet,  pre- 
luding note  of  the  player  had  touched  a  chord  in  my  soul  as 
utterly  different  from  that  which  it  expressed,  as  could  by  any 
possibility  be  conceived.  Heart  and  hope  were  instantly  para- 
lyzed. Fear  and  its  train,  its  haunting  spectres  of  suspicion, 
took  possession  of  the  undefended-  cftadel,  and  established  guard 
upon  its  deserted  outposts.  I  tottered  to  the  window  which  I 
had  left — I  shrouded  myself  in  the  folds  of  the  curtain,  and  as 
the  strains  rose,  renewed  and  regular,  I  struggled  to  keep  in  my 
breath,  listening  eagerly,  as  if  the  complaining  instrument  could 
actually  give  utterance  to  the  cruel  mystery  which  I  equally 
dreaded  and  desired  to  hear. 

The  air  which  was  played  was  such  as  I  had  never  heard  be- 
fore. Indeed,  it  could  scarcely  be  called  an  air.  It  was  the 
most  capricious  burden  of  mournfulness  that  had  ever  had  its 
utterance  from  wo.  Fancy  a  mute — one  bereft  of  the  divine 
faculty  of  speech,  by  human,  not  divine  ministration.  Fancy  such 
a  being  endowed  with  the  loftiest  desires,  moved  by  the  acutes* 
sensibilities,  having  already  felt  the  pleasures  of  life,  yet  doom- 
ed to  a  denial  of  utterance,  denied  the  language  of  complaint, 
and  striving,  struggling  through  the  imperfect  organs  of  his  voice 
to  give  a  name  to  the  agony  which  works  within  him.  That 
flute  seemed  to  me  to  moan,  and  sob,  and  shiver,  with  some  sucli 
painful  mode  of  expression  as  would  be  permitted  to  the  "  half 
made-up"  mortal  of  whom  I  have  spoken.  Its  broken  tones, 

13 


290  CONFESSION,  Oh,  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

striving  and  struggling,  almost  rising  at  times  into  a  shriek,  seem- 
ed  of  all  things  to  complain  of  its  own  voicelessness. 

And  yet  it  had  its  melody — melody,  to  me,  of  the  most  vex- 
ing power.  I  should  have  called  the  strain  a  soliloquizing  one, 
It  certainly  did  not  seem  addressed  to  any  ears.  It  wanted  the 
continuance  of  apostrophe.  It  was  capricious.  Sometimes  the 
burden  fell  off  suddenly — broken  —  wholly  interrupted — as  if 
the  vents  had  been  all  simultaneously  and  suddenly  stopped. 
Anon,  it  rose  again  —  soul-piercing  if  not  loud  —  so  abruptly, 
and  with  an  utterance  so  utterly  gone  with  wo,  that  you  felt 
sure  the  poor  heart  must  break  with  the  next  breath  that  came 
from  the  laboring  and  inefficient  lungs.  A  "  dying  fall"  succeed- 
ing, seemed  to  afford  temporary  relief.  It  seemed  as  if  tears 
must  have  fallen  upon  the  instrument,  Its  language  grew  more 
methodical,  more  subdued,  but  not  less  touching.  I  fancied,  I 
felt,  that,  entering  into  the  soul  of  the  musician,  I  could  give 
the  very  words  to  the  sentiment  which  his  instrument  vainly 
strove  to  speak.  What  else  but  despair  and  utter  self-abandon- 
ment was  in  that  broken  language  ?  The  full  heart  over-burden- 
ed, breaking,  to  find  a  vent  for  the  feelings  which  it  had  no 
longer  power  to  contain.  And  yet,  content  to  break,  breaking 
with  a  melancholy  sort  of  triumph  which  seemed  to  say — 

"  Such  a  death  has  its  own  sweetness ;  love  sanctifies  the 
pang  to  its  victim.  It  is  a  sort  of  martyrdom.  He  who  loves 
truly,  though  he  loves  hopelessly,  has  not  utterly  loved  in  vain. 
The  devoted  heart  finds  a  joy  in  the  offering,  though  the  Deity 
withholds  his  acceptance — though  a  sudden  gust  from  heaven 
scatters  abroad  the  rich  fruits  which  the  devotee  has  placed 
upon  the  despised  and  dishonored  altar." 

Such,  I  fancied,  was  the  proud  language  of  that  melancholy 
music.  Had  I  been  other  than  I  was — nay,  had  I  listened  tc 
the  burden  under  other  circumstances  and  in  another  place — I 
should  most  probably  have  felt  nothing  but  sympathy  for  the 
musician.  As  it  was,  I  can  not  describe  my  feelings.  All  my 
racking  doubts  and  miseries  returned.  The  tone  of  triumph 
which  the  strain  conveyed  wrought  upon  me  like  an  indignity. 
It  seemed  to  denote  that  "  foregone  conclusion"  which  had  been 
my  cause  of  apprehension  so  long.  Could  it  be  then  that  Julia 
was  really  guilty  ?  Could  she  have  given  William  Edgerton  so 


RENEWED    AGONIES.  291 

much  encouragement  that  triumph  and  exultation  should  still 
mingle  with  his  farewell  accents  of  despair]  Ah!  what  fan- 
tasies preyed  upon  my  soul ;  haunted  the  smallest  movements 
of  my  mind ;  conjured  up  its  spectres,  and  gave  bitterness  to  its 
every  beverage  1  When  I  thought  thus  of  Julia,  I  rose  cau- 
tiously from  my  seat,  approached  the  bed  where  she  was  lying, 
and  gazed  steadily,  though  with  the  wildest  thrill  of  emotion, 
into  her  face.  I  verily  believe  had  she  not  been  sleeping  at 
that  moment — sleeping  beyond  question  —  she  would  have 
shared  the  fate  of 

"  The  gentle  lady  wedded  to  the  Moor." 

I  was  in  the  mood  for  desperate  things. 

But  she  slept — her  cheek  upon  her  arm — pale,  but  oh!  how 
beautiful !  and  looking,  oh  !  how  pure  !  Her  breathing  was  as 
tranquil  and  regular  as  that  of  an  infant.  I  felt,  while  I  gazed, 
that  hers  must  be  the  purity  of  an  infant  also.  I  turned  from 
beholding  her,  as  the  renewed  notes  of  the  musician  once  more 
ascended  to  the  chamber.  I  again  took  my  seat  at  the  window 
and  concealed  myself  behind  the  curtain.  Here  I  had  been 
concealed  but  a  few  moments,  when  I  heard  a  rustling  in  the 
branches  of  the  tree.  Meanwhile,  the  music  again  ceased.  I 
peered  cautiously  from  behind  the  drapery,  and  fancied  I  be- 
held a  dark  object  in  the  tree.  It  might  be  one  of  its  branches, 
but  I  had  not  been  struck  by  it  before.  I  waited  in  breathless 
watchfulness.  I  saw  it  move.  Its  shape  was  that  of  a  man. 
An  exulting  feeling  of  violence  filled  my  breast.  I  rose  stealth- 
ily, went  into  the  dressing-room,  and  took  up  one  of  my  pistols 
which  lay  on  the  toilet,  and  which  I  had  that  afternoon  prepar- 
ed with  a  travelling  charge. 

"  A  brace  of  bullets,"  I  muttered  to  myself,  "  will  bring  out 
another  sort  of  music  from  this  rare  bird." 

With  this  murderous  purpose  I  concealed  myself  once  more 
behkid  the  curtain.  The  figure  was  sufficiently  distinct  for  aim. 
The  window  was  not  more  than  twelve  or  fourteen  paces  from 
the  tree.  My  nerves  were  now  as  steady  as  if  I  had  been  about 
to  perform  the  most  ordinary  action.  What  then  prevented 
me  ?  What  stayed  my  arm  ?  A  single  thought — a  momentary 
recollection  of  an  event  which'  had  taken  place  in  my  boyhood. 


292  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

What  a  providence  that  it  should  have  occurred  to  me  at  that 
particular  moment.  The  circumstance  was  this. 

When  first  sent  to  school  I  had  been  frequently  taken  at  ad- 
vantage by  a  bigger  boy.  He  had  twice  my  strength — he  took 
a  strong  dislike  for  me — perhaps,  because  I  was  unwilling  to 
pay  him  that  deference,  which,  as  school-bully,  he  extorted  from 
all  others; — and  lie  drubbed  me  accordingly,  whenever  an  op- 
portunity occurred.  My  resistance  was  vain,  and  only  stimulated 
him  to  increased  brutality.  One  day  he  was  lying  upon  the 
grass,  beneath  an  oak  which  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  common 
on  which  we  usually  played.  It  happened  that  I  drew  near 
him  unperceived.  In  approaching  him  I  had  no  purpose  of  as- 
sault or  violence.  But  the  circumstance  of  my  n earing  him 
without  being  seen,  suggested  to  my  mind  a  sudden  thought  of 
revenging  all  my  previous  injuries.  I  felt  bitterness  and  hate 
enough,  had  I  possessed  the  strength,  to  have  slain  a  dozen.  I 
do  not  know  that  I  had  any  design  to  slay  him — to  revenge 
myself  was  certainly  my  wish.  Of  death  probably  I  had  no  idea. 
I  looked  about  me  for  the  agent  of  my  vengeance.  A  pile  of 
old  brick  which  had  formed  the  foundations  of  a  dwelling  which 
had  stood  on  the  spot,  and  which  had  been  burned,  convenient- 
ly presented  itself  to  my  eye.  I  possessed  myself  of  as  large 
a  fragment  as  my  little  hand  could  grasp  ;  I  secured  a  second  as 
a  dernier  resort.  Slowly  and  slily  —  I  may  add,  basely  —  I  ap- 
proached him  from  behind,  levelled  the  brick  at  his  head,  and 
saw  the  blood  fly  an  instant  after  the  contact.  He  was  stunned 
by  the  blow,  staggered  up,  however,  with  his  eyes  blinded  by 
blood,  and  moved  after  me  like  a  drunken  man.  I  receded 
olowly,  lifting  the  remaining  fragment  which  I  held,  intending, 
if  he  approached  me,  to  repeat  the  blow. 

On  a  sudden  he  fell  forward  sprawling.  Then  I  thought  him 
dead,  and  for  the  first  time  the  dreadful  consciousness  of  my 
crime  in  its  true  character,  came  to  my  mind.  I  can  not  de- 
scribe the  agony  of  fear  and  horror  which  filled  my  soul.  He 
did  not  die,  but  he  was  severely  hurt. 

The  recollection  of  that  event  —  of  what  I  then  suffered— 
came  to  me  involuntarily,  as  I  was  about  to  perform  a  second 
gimilar  crime.  I  shuddered  with  the  recollection  of  the  past, 
and  shrunk,  under  the  equal  force  of  shame  and  conscie/ice, 


RENEWED   AGONIES.  293 

from  the  performance  of  a  deed  which,  otherwise,  1  should  prob- 
ably have  committed  in  the  brief  time  which  I  employed  for 
reflection.  With  a  feeling  of  nervous  horror  I  put  the  weapon 
aside,  and  sinking  once  more  into  the  chair  beside  the  window 
I  bore  with  what  fortitude  I  might,  the  renewal  of  the  accursed 
but  touching  strains" that  vexed  me. 

William  Edgerton  was  a  master  of  the  flute.  Often  before, 
when  we  were  the  best  friends,  had  I  listened  with  delight, 
while  he  compelled  it  into  discourse  of  music  wild  and  some- 
what incoherent  still :  his  present  performance  had  now  attained 
more  continuousness  and  character.  It  was  still  mournful,  but 
its  sorrows  rose  and  fell  naturally,  in  compliance  with  the  laws 
of  art.  I  listened  till  I  could  listen  no  longer.  Human  pa- 
tience must  have  its  limits.  My  wife  still  slept.  I  descended 
the  stairs,  opened  the  door  with  as  much  cautiousness  as  possi- 
ble, and  prepared  to  grapple  the  musician  and  haul  him  into 
the  light. 

It  might  be  Edgerton  or  not.  I  was  morally  sure  it  was. 
By  grappling  with  him,  in  such  a  situation,  I  should  bring  the 
affair  to  a  final  issue,  though  it  might  not  be  a  murderous  one. 
But  of  that  I  did  not  think;  I  went  forward  to  do  something 
what  that  something  waj  to  be,  it  was  luft  for  tun*  and  chance 
to  determine.  But,  suddenly,  as  I  opened  the  door,  the  music 
ceased.  Stepping  into  the  yard,  I  heard  the  sound  as  of  a  fall- 
ing bcdy.  I  naturally  concluded  that  he  had  heard  the  open- 
ing of  the  door,  and  had  suffered  himself  to  drop  down  to  tie 
ground.  I  took  for  granted  that  he  had  descended  on  t'ne  oppo- 
site side  of  the  yard  and  within  the  enclosure  of  a  neighbor.  I 
leaped  the  fence,  hurried  to  the  tree,  traversed  the  grounds,  ac  d 
found  nobody.  I  returned,  reached  my  own  premises,  and 
found  the  gate  o^en  which  opened  upon  the  street.  He  had 
gone  then  in  that  direction.  I  turned  into  tad  street,  postci 
with  all  speed  to  the  corner  of  the  eoiuare.  and  met  only  tho 
watchman.  I  asked>  but  he  had  seen  nobody.  The  street  was 
perfectly  quiet,  I  returned,  reascendcd  to  my  chamber,  found 
Julia  now  awake,  aud  evidently  much  agitated.  She  had  arisen 
in  my  absence,  and  was  only  about  to  re-enter  the  bed  whea  J 
rushed  up  stairs. 

What  was  I  to  think  ?     What  fear  ?     I  was  too  conscious  of 


294  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

the  suspicious  nature  of  my  thoughts  and  fears  to  suffer  myself 
to  ask  any  questions  —  and  she,  unhappily  for  both  of  us — she 
said  nothing.  Had  she  but  spoken — had  she  but  uttered  the 
natural  inquiry — "  Did  you  hear  that  strange  music,  husband  ?" 
—  how  much  easier  had  been  her  extrication.  But  she  was 
silent,  and  I  was  again  let  loose  upon  a  wide  sea  of  fears  and 
doubts  and  damnable  apprehensions.  Once  more,  and  now  with 
a  feeling  which  would  not  have  made  me  forbear  the  use  of  any 
weapon,  however  deadly,  I  re-examined  my  own  enclosure,  but 
in  vain.  The  horrible  thought  which  possessed  me  was  that  he 
had  even  penetrated  the  dwelling  while  I  was  seeking  him  in 
the  street ;  that  they  had  met ;  and  how  was  I  to  know  the  de- 
gree of  tenderness  which  had  marked  tfeek  meeting  end  given 
sweetness  to  their  adieus ! 


THE  NEW   HOME. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE   NEW    HOME. 

WITH  these  revived  suspicions,  half  etifled*  tut  stQJ  5trag 
gling  in  my  bosom,  did  i  commence  my  journey  for  the  West. 
My  arrangements  were  comprehensive,  but  simple.  I  had  pro- 
cured a  second-hand  travelling  carriage  and  fine  pair  of  horses 
from  an  acquaintance,  at  a  very  moderate  price — a  price  which, 
I  well  knew,  I  should  easily  get  for  them  again  on  reaching  my 
place  of  destination.  I  was  my  own  driver.  I  had  no  money  to 
spare  in  purchasing  what  might  be  dispensed  with.  A  single  trunk 
contained  all  the  necessary  luggage  of  my  wife  and  self.  What 
was  not  absolutely  needed  by  the  wayside  was  sent  on  by  water. 
This  included  my  books,  desks,  Julia's  painting  materials,  and 
such  other  articles  of -the  household,  as  were  of  cost  and  not 
bulky.  I  had  previously  written  —  as  I  may  have  stated  al- 
ready—  to  my  friend  Kingsley.  He  was  to  procure  me  tem- 
porary lodgings  in  the  town  of  M .  I  left  much  to  his 

judgment  and  experience.  He  had  once  before  been  in  Alabama 
and  having  interests  there,  had  made  himself  familiar  with  every- 
thing in  that  region,  necessary  to  be  known.  T  put  myself  very 
much  in  his  hands.  I  was  too  anxious  to  get  away  to  urge  any 
difficulties  or  make  any  troublesome  requisitions.  He  was  sim- 
ply to  procure  me  an  abiding-place  in  some  private  family — if 
possible  in  the  suburbs  —  until  I  should  be  able  to  look  about 
me.  Economy  was  insisted  upon.  I  had  precious  little  money 
to  spare,  and  even  the  spoils  of  my  one  night's  visit  to  the  gam- 
ing-house, were  of  no  small  help  in  suctaimngi:  3  in  my  determi- 
nation to  remove.  I  had  not  applied  them  previously.  I  con- 
fess to  a  feeling  of  shame  when  I  was  compelled  by  necessity  at  last 


296  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

to  use  them.  I  had  saved  something  already  from  my  profes 
sional  income,  and  I  procured  an  advance  on  my  furniture 
which  was  left  for  sale.  I  had  calculated  my  expenses  in  re- 
moving and  for  one  year's  residence  in  M ,  and  was  pre- 
pared, so  far  as  poor  human  foresight  may  prepare  itself,  to  keep 
want  from  our  doors  at  least  for  that  period.  I  trusted  to  good 
fortune,  my  own  resources,  and  the  notorious  fact  that,  at  that 

day,  there  were  few  able  lawyers  in  M ,  to  secure  me  an 

early  and  valuable  practice.  I  carried  with  me  letters  from  the 
best  men  in  the  community  I  had  left.  But  I  carried  with  me 
what  was  of  more  value  than  any  letters,  even  though  they  be 
written  in  gold.  I  carried  with  me  methodical  habits  and  an 
energy  of  character  which  would  maintain  iny  resolution,  and 
bear  me  through,  to  a  safe  conclusion,  in  any  plan  which  I 
should  contemplate.  Industry  and  perseverance  are  the  giants 
that  cast  down  forests,  drain  swamps,  level  mountains,  and  create 
empires.  I  flattered  myself  that  with  these  I  had  other  and 
crowning  qualities  of  intellect  and  culture.  Perhaps  it  may 
be  admitted  that  I  had.  But  of  what  avail  were  all  when 
coupled  with  the  blind  heart  ?  Enough  —  I  must  not  anticipate. 

Filled  with  the  exciting  fancies  engendered  by  the  affair  of 
the  last  night,  I  commenced  my  journey.  The  day  was  a  fine 
one ;  the  sun  cheery  and  bright  without  being  oppressive  ;  and 
soon,  gliding  through  the  broad  avenues;  lined  with  noblest  trees, 
which  conducted  us  from  the  city  to  the  forests,  we  had  tho 
pleasant  carol  of  birds,  and  the  lively  chirp  of  hopping  insects. 

I  was  always  a  lover  of  the  woods ;  green  shady  dells,  and 
winding  walks  amidst  crowding  foliage.  .  I  cared  little  for  mero 
flowers.  A  garden  was  never  a  desire  in  my  mind.  I  could  be 
pleased  to  see  and  to  smell,  but  I  had  no  passion  for  its  objects. 
But  the  trees — the  big,  venerable  oaks,  like  patriarchs  and 
priests ;  the  lofty  and  swaggering  pines  in  their  green  helmets, 
like  warriors  of  the  feudal  ages  —  these  were  forms  that  I  could 
worship.  I  may  say,  I  loved  trees  with  a  real  passion.  Flow 
ers,  and  the  taste  for  flowers  seemed  to  me  always  petty ;  but 
my  instincts  led  me  to  behold  a  speaking,  and  most  impressive 
grandeur,  in  these  old  Jords  of  lha  f  rest,  that  had  been  the  first, 
rising  from  the  mighty  moth,  r  to  attest  the  wondrous  strength 
of  her  resources,  and  the  teeming  glories  of  her  womb. 


THE  NEW   HOME.  297 

Now,  however,  they  did  not  fill  my  soul  with  earnest  reach- 
ings,  as  had  ever  heen  the  case  before.  They  soothed  me  some- 
what, but  the  eyes  of  my  mind  were  turned  within.  They 
looked  only  at  the  prostration  of  that  miserable  heart  which 
was  torturing  itself  with  vague,  wild  doubts  —  guessing  and  con- 
jecturing with  an  agonizing  pain,  and  without  the  least  hope  of 
profit.  I  could  not  drive  from  my  thoughts,  the  vexing  circum- 
stances of  the  last  night  in  the  city  ;  and,  for  the  first  day  of  our 
journey,  the  hours  moved  with  oppressive  slowness.  Objects 
which  I  had  formerly  loved  to  contemplate  and  always  found 
sweet  and  refreshing,  now  gave  me  little  pleasure  and  exacted 
little  of  my  attention ;  and  I  reached  our  stopping-place  for  the 
night  with  a  sense  of  weariness  and  stupor  which  no  mere 
fatigue  of  body,  I  well  knew,  could  ever  have  occasioned. 

But  this  could  not  last.  The  elasticity  of  my  nature,  joined 
with  the  absence  of  that  one  person  whom  I  had  now  learned 
to  regard  as  my  evil  genius,  soon  enabled  me  to  shake  off  the 
oppressive  doubts  and  sadness  which  fettered  and  enfeebled  me. 
Once  more  I  began  to  behold  the  forests  with  all  the  eyes  of 
former  delight  and  affection,  and  I  was  conscious,  after  the  prog- 
ress of  a  day  or  two,  of  periods  in  which  I  entirely  lost  sight 
of  William  Edgerton  and  all  my  suspicions  in  the  sweet  warmth 
of  a  fresh  and  pleasing  contemplation. 

Something  of  this  —  nay,  perhaps,  the  most  of  it,  was  due  to 
my  wife  herself.  There  was  a  change  in  her  air  and  mannei 
which  sensibly  affected  my  heart.  I  had  treated  her  coldly  at 
first,  but  she  had  not  perceived  it ;  at  least  she  had  not  suffered 
it  to  influence  her  conduct ;  and  I  was  equally  pleased  and  sur- 
prised to  behold  in  her  language,  looks,  and  deportment,  a  degree 
of  life  and  buoyant  animation,  which  reminded  me  of  the  very 
champagne  exuberance  and  spirit  of  her  youth.  Her  eyes 
flashed  with  a  sense  of  freedom.  Her  voice  sounded  with  the 
silvery  clearness  of  one,  who,  long  pent  up  in  the  limits  of  a 
dungeon,  uses  the  first  moment  of  escape  into  the  forests  to  de- 
light himself  with  song.  She  seemed  to  have  just  thrown  off 
a  miserable  burden; — and,  as  for  any  grief — any  sign  of  regret 
at  leaving  home  and  ties  from  which  she  would  not  willingly 
part — there  was  not  the  slightest  appearance  of  any  such  feel- 
ing in  her  mind,  look,  or  manner.  Kindly,  considerately,  and 

13* 


298  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

sweetly,  and  with  a  cheery  smile  in  her  eyes,  and  a  springing 
vigor  in  the  accents  of  her  voice,  she  strove  to  enliven  the  way 
and  to  expel  the  gloom  which  she  soon  perceived  had  fastened 
itself  upon  my  soul.  Her  own  cares,  if  she  had  any,  seemed  to 
be  very  slight,  and  were  utterly  lost  in  mine.  She  spoke  of  our 
new  abiding- place  with  a  hearty  confidence ;  that  it  would  be  at 
once  a  home  of  prosperity  and  peace ;  and,  altogether  convinced 
me  for  the  time  that  the  sacrifice  must  be  comparatively  very 
small,  which  she  had  made  on  leaving  her  birth-place.  I  very 
soon  wondered  that  I  should  have  fancied  that  William  Edgerton 
was  ever  more  to  her  than  the  friend  of  her  husband. 

Our  journey  was  slow  but  not  tedious.  Had  our  progress 
been  only  half  so  rapid,  I  should  have  been  satisfied.  It  was 
love  alone  that  my  heart  wanted.  I  craved  for  nothing  but  the 
just  requital  of  my  own  passion.  I  had  no  complaint,  no  afflic- 
tion, when  I  could  persuade  myself  that  I  had  not  thrown  away 
my  affections  upon  the  ungrateful  and  undeserving.  Assured 
now  of  the  love  of  the  beloved  one,  all  the  intense  devotion  of 
my  soul  was  re-awakened ;  and  the  deepest  shadows  of  the 
forest,  gloomy  and  desolate  as  they  were,  along  the  waste  tracts 
of  Georgia  and  Alabama — in  that  earlier  day — enlivened  by 
the  satisfied  spirit  within,  seemed  no  more  than  so  many  places 
of  retreat,  where  security  and  peace,  combining  in  behalf  of 
Love,  had  given  him  an  exclusive  sovereignty. 

The  rude  countryman  encountered  us,  and  his  face  beamed 
with  cheerfulness  and  good  humor.  The  song  of  the  black  soft- 
ened the  toils  of  labor,  in  the  unfinished  clearings ;  and  even 
the  wild  red  man,  shooting  suddenly  from  out  the  sylvan  covert, 
wore  in  his  visage  of  habitual  gravity,  an  air  of  resignation  which 
took  all  harshness  from  his  uncouth  features. 

Such,  under  the  tuition  of  well-satisfied  hearts,  was  our 
mutual  experience  of  the  long  journey  which  we  had  taken 
when  we  reached  the  end  of  it.  This  we  did  in  perfect  safet^. 
We  found  our  friend,  Kingsley,  prepared  for  and  awaiting  us. 
He  had  procured  us  pleasant  apartments  in  a  neat  cottage  in 
the  suburbs,  where  we  were  almost  to  ourselves.  Our  landlady 
was  an  ancient  widow,  without  a  family.  She  occupied  but  a 
single  apartment  in  her  house,  and  left  the  use  of  the  rest  to 
her  lodgers.  This  was  an  arrangement  with  which  I  was  par- 


THE  NEW   HOME.  299 

ticularly  gratified.  Her  cottage  lay  half  way  up  on  the  side  of 
a  hill  which  was  crowned  with  thick  clumps  of  the  noblest 
trees.  Long,  winding,  narrow  foot-paths,  carried  us  picturesque- 
ly to  the  summit,  where  we  had  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  town 
below,  the  river  beyond — now  darting  out  from  the  woods  and 
now  hiding  securely  beneath  their  umbrage — and  fair,  smooth, 
lawn-looking  fields,  which  glowed  at  the  proper  season  with  the 
myriad  green  and  white  plnmes  of  corn  and  cotton.  At  the 
foot  of  the  cottage  lay  a  delightful  shrubbery,  which  almost 
covered  it  up  from  sight.  It  was  altogether  such  a  retreat  as  a 
hermit  would  desire.  It  reminded  me  somewhat  of  the  lovely 
spot  which  we  had  left.  A  pleasant  walk  of  a  mile  lay  between 
it  and  the  town  where  I  proposed  to  practice,  and  this  furnished 
a  necessity  for  a  certain  degree  of  exercise,  which,  being  un- 
avoidable, was  of  the  most  valuable  kind.  Altogether,  Kingsley 
had  executed  his  commission  with  a  taste  and  diligence  which 
left  me  nothing  to  complain  of. 

He  was  delighted  at  my  coming. 

"  You  are  nearer  to  me  now,"  he  said ;  "  will  be  nearer  at 
least  when  I  get  to  Texas ;  and  I  do  not  despair  to  see  you 
making  tracks  after  me  when  I  go  there." 

"  But  when  go  you  1" 

"  Not  soon.  I  am  in  some  trouble  here.  I  am  pleading  and 
being  impleaded.  You  are  just  come. in  season  to  take  up  the 
cudgels  for  me.  My  landrights  are  disputed — my  titles.  You 
will  have  something  of  a  lawsuit  to  begin  upon  at  your  earliest 
leisure." 

"  Indeed  !  but  what's  the  business  ?" 

He  gave  me  a  statement  of  his  affairs,  placed  his  papers  in 
my  hands,  and  I  found  myself,  on  inspecting  them,  engaged  in 
a  controversy  which  was  likely  to  give  me  the  opportunity  which 
I  desired,  of  appearing  soon  in  cases  of  equal  intricacy  and  in- 
terest. Kingsley  had  some  ten  thousand  dollars  in  land,  the 
greater  part  of  which  was  involved  in  questions  of  title  and  pre- 
emption, presenting  some  complex  features,  and  likely  to  occa- 
sion bad  blood  among  certain  trespassers  whom  it  became  our 
first  duty  to  oust  if  possible.  I  was  associated  with  a  spirited 
young  lawyer  of  the  place ;  a  youth  of  great  natural  talent, 
keen,  quick  intellect,  much  readiness  of  resource,  yet  little  ex 


300  CONFESSION,    Oil   THE   BLIND   HEART. 

perience  and  less  reading.  Like  the  great  mass  of  our  western 
men,  however,  lie  was  a  man  to  improve.  He  had  no  self-con- 
ceit—  did  not  delude  himself  with  the  idea  that  he  knew  as 
much  as  his  neighbor ;  and,  consequently,  was  pretty  certain  to 
increase  in  wisdom  with  increase  of  years.  He  had  few  preju- 
dices to  get  over,  and  though  he  knew  his  strength,  he  also 
knew  his  weakness.  He  felt  the  instinct  of  natural  talent,  but 
he  did  not  deceive  himself  on  the  subject  of  his  deficient  knowl- 
edge. He  was  willing  to  learn  whenever  he  could  find  a  teach- 
er. His  name  was  Wharton.  I  took  to  him  at  once.  He  was 
an  ardent,  manly  fellowr  —  frank  as  a  boy  —  could  laugh  and 
weep  m  the  same  hour,  and  yet  was  as  firm  in  his  principles,  as 
if  he  could  neither  laugh  nor  weep.  As  an  acquaintance  he 
was  an  acquisition. 

Kingsley  was  delighted  to  see  me,  though  somewhat  wonder- 
ing that  I  should  give  up  the  practice  at  home,  where  I  was 
doing  so  well,  to  break  ground  in  a  region  where  I  was  utterly 
unknown.  He  gave  me  little  trouble,  however,  in  accounting 
to  him  for  this  movement.  It  was  not  difficult  to  persuade  him 
—  nay,  he  soon  persuaded  himself — that  something  of  my  pres- 
ent course  was  due  to  his  own  counsel  and  suggestion.  To  a 
man,  like  himself,  to  whom  mere  transition  was  pleasure,  it 
needed  no  argument  to  show  that  my  resolve  was  right. 

"  Who  the  d — 1,"  he  exclaimed,  "  would  like  always  to  be  in 
the  same  place  1  Such  a  person  is  a  mere  cipher.  We  estab 
lish  an  intellectual  superiority  when  we  show  ourselves  superior 
to  place.  A  genuine  man  is  always  a  citizen  of  the  world.  It 
is  your  vegetable  man  that  can  not  go  far  without  grumbling, 
finding  fault  with  all  he  sees,  talking  of  comforts  and  such  small 
matters,  and  longing  to  get  home  again.  Such  a  man  puts  me 
in  rnind  of  every  member  of  the  cow  family  that  I  ever  knew. 
He  is  never  at  peace  with  himself  or  the  world,  but  always 
groaning  and  thrusting  out  his  horns,  until  he  can  get  back  to 
his  old  range,  and  revel  in  his  native  marsh,  joint-grass,  and 
cane-tops.  Englishmen  are  very  much  of  this  breed.  They 
go  abroad,  grumble  as  they  go,  and  if  they  can  not  carry  their 
cane-tops  with  them,  afflict  the  whole  world  with  their  lamen- 
tations. I  take  it  for  granted,  Clifford,  that  this  step  to 
Alabama,  is  simply  a  step  toward  Texas.  Your  next  will 


THE  NEW  HOME.  301 

be  to  New  Orleans,  and  then,  presto,  we  shall  see  yon  on  the 

Sabine." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  my  wife.  "  You  have  got  us  into  such 
comfortable  quarters  here,  Mr.  Kingsley,  that  I  hope  you  will 
do  nothing  to  tempt  my  husband  farther.  Go  farther  and  fare 
worse,  you  know.  Let  well  enough  alone." 

"  Oh,  I  beseech  you  ! — two  proverbs  at  a  time  will  be  fatal 
to  one  or  other  of  us.  Perhaps  both.  But  he  can  not  fare  worse 
by  going  to  Texas." 

"  He  will  do  well  enough  here." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Recover  your  lands,  for  example,  as  a  beginning." 

"  Ah  !  now  you  would  bribe  me.  That  is  certainly  a  sugges- 
tion to  make  me  keep  my  tongue,  at  least  until  the  verdict 
is  rendered.  'Till  then,  you  know,  I  shall  make  no  permanent 
remove  myself." 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  go  before  the  trial  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  for  a  couple  of  months  or  so.  I  should  only  get  into 
some  squabble  with  my  opponents  by  remaining  here ;  and  I 
may  be  preparing  for  all  of  us  by  going  in  season.  I  will  look 
out  for  a  township,  Mrs.  Clifford,  on  the  edge  of  some  beautiful 
prairie,  and  near  some  beautiful  river.  Your  husband  has  a 
passion  for  water  prospects,  I  can  tell  you,  and  would  become 
a  misanthrope  without  them.  I  am  doubtful  if  he  will  be  happy, 
indeed,  if  not  within  telescope  distance  from  the  sea  itself.  I 
don't  think  that  a  river  will  altogether  satisfy  him." 

"  Oh  yes,  this  must ;"  and  as  she  spoke  she  pointed  to  the 
fair  glassy  surface  of  the  Alabama,  as  it  stretched  away,  at  in- 
tervals, in  broad  glimpses  before  our  eyes. 

"  Well,  we  shall  see ;  but  I  will  make  my  preparations,  nev- 
ertheless, precisely  as  if  he  were  not  likely  to  be  content.  I 
have  formed  to  myself  a  plan  for  all  of  you.  I  must  make  a 
dear  little  colony  of  our  own  in  Texas.  We  shall  have  a  nest 
of  the  sweetest  little  cottages,  each  with  its  neat  little  garden. 
In  the  centre  we  shall  have  a  neat  little  playground  for  our 
neat  little  children;  on  the  hill  a  neat  little  church;  in  the 
grove  a  neat  little  library ;  on  the  river  a  neat  little  barge ; 
and  over  this  neat  little  empire,  you,  Lady  Clifford,  shall  be 
the  neat  little  empress." 


302  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

"  Dear  me  !  what  a  neat  little  establishment !" 

"  It  shall  be  all  that,  I  assure  you ;  and  it  shall  have  other 
advantages.  You  shall  have  a  kingdom  free  from  taxes  and 
wars.  There  shall  be  no  law-givers  but  yourself.  We  shall 
have  no  elections  except  when  we  elect  our  wives,  and  the 
women  shall  be  the  only  voters  then.  We  shall  have  no  cus- 
tomhouses—  everything  shall  be  free  of  duty; — we  shall  have 
no  banks  —  everything  shall  be  free  of  charge;  —  we  shall  have 
no  parson,  for  shall  we  not  be  sinless  V9 

"  But  what  will  you  do  with  the  neat  little  church  ?" 

"  Oh !  that  we  shall  keep  merely  to  remind  us  of  what  is 
necessary  in  less  fortunate  communities." 

"  Very  good  ;  but  how,  if  you  have  no  parsons;  will  you  per- 
form the  marriage  ceremony  V9 

"  That  shall  be  a  natural  operation  of  government.  The 
voters  having  given  their  suifrages,  you  shall  determine  and 
declare  with  whom  the  majority  lies,  and  give  a  certificate  to 
that  effect.  The  first  choice  will  lie  with  the  damsel  having 
the  highest  number  of  votes;  the  second  with  the  next;  and 
so  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter ;  and  then  elections  are  to  take 
place  annually  among  the  unmarried  —  the  ladies  being  the 
privileged  class  as  I  said  before.  You  will  keep  a  record  of 
these  events,  the  names  of  parties,  and  so  forth  ;  and  this  record 
shall  be  proof,  conclusive  to  conviction,  against  any  party  falling 
off  from  his  or  her  duties." 

"  Quite  a  system.  I  do  not  deny  that  our  sex  will  have  some 
new  privileges  by  this  arrangement." 

"  Unquestionably.  But  you  have  not  heard  all.  We  shall 
have  no  doctors,  for  we  shall  have  no  diseases  in  the  beautiful 
world  to  which  I  shall  cany  you.  We  shall  have  no  lawyers, 
for  we  shall  have  no  wrangling." 

"  Indeed ;  but  what  is  my  husband  to  do  then  V9 

"  Why,  he  is  your  husband.  What  should  he  do  ?  He  takes 
rank  from  you.  You  are  queen,  you  know.  He  will  have  no 
need  of  law  " 

"  There's  reason  in  that ;  but  how  will  you  prevent  wrang- 
ling where  there  are  men  and  women  ?" 

"  Oh,  by  giving  the  women  their  own  way.    The  government 


THE  NEW   HOME.  803 

is  a  despotism — you  are  queen  —  surely  you  will  make  no  fur- 
ther objection  to  so  admirable  a  system  ?" 

In  good-humored  chat  like  this,  in  which  our  landlady,  Mrs. 
Porterfield — a  lady  who,  though  fully  sixty-five  years  of  age, 
was  yet  of  a  cheery  and  chatty  disposition — took  considerable 
part,  our  first  evening  passed  away.  Though  fatigued,  we  sat 
up  until  a  tolerably  late  hour,  enlivened  by  the  frank  spirit  of 
our  friend,  Kingsley,  and  inspired  ty  the  natural  feeling  of  cu- 
riosity which  our  change  of  situation  inspired.  It  was  midnig  it 
before  we  solicited  the  aid  of  sleep 


804  CONFESSION,   OR   THE   BLIND   HEART. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE   BLACK    DOG   ONCE   MORE   UPON   THE   SCENE. 

THE  next  day  was  devoted  to  an  examination  of  our  premises 
and  the  neighborhood.  The  resnlt  of  this  examination  was 
such  as  to  render  us  hetter  satisfied  with  the  change  that  we  had 
made.  We  were  still  young  enough  to  be  sensible  to  the  love- 
liness of  novelty.  Everything  wore  that  purple  light  which 
the  eye  of  youth  confers  upon  the  object.  And  then  there  was 
repose.  That  harassing  strife  of  the  "  blind  heart"  was  at  rest. 
I  had  no  more  suspicions ;  and  my  wife  looked  and  spoke  as  if 
she  had  never  had  either  doubts  of  me,  or  fears  of  herself,  within 
her  bosom.  I  was  happiness  itself,  when,  by  the  unreserved 
ease  and  gayety  of  her  deportment  she  persuaded  me  that  she 
suffered  no  regrets.  I  little  fancied  how  much  the  change  in 
my  wife's  manner  had  arisen  from  the  involuntary  change  which 
had  been  going  on  in  mine.  I  now  looked  the  love  which  I 
felt ;  and  she  felt,  in  the  improvement  of  my  looks,  the  renewal 
of  that  foud  passion  which  I  had  never  ceased  to  feel,  but  which 
I  had  only  too  much  ceased  to  show  while  suffering  from  the 
"  blind  heart."  She  resumed  her  old  amusements  with  new 
industry.  Our  little  parlor  received  constant  accessions  of  new 
pictures.  All  our  leisure  was  employed  ;n  exploring  the  see- 
nery  of  the  neighborhood ;  and  not  a  bit  of  forect,  or  patch  of 
hill,  or  streak  of  rivulet  or  stream,  to  whish  the  genius  of  art 
could  lend  loveliness,  but  she  picked  up,  in  these  happy  iam- 
bics, and  worked  into  fitting  places  upon  our  cottage  walls. 

Our  good  old  hostess  became  attached  to  us.  She  virtually 
surrendered  the  management  of  the  household  to  my  wife.  She 
was  old  and  quite  infirm  ;  and  was  frequently  confined  for  days 


THE  BLACK  DOG  ONCE  MORE  UPON  THE  SCENE.    305 

to  her  chamber ;  which  must  have  been  a  solitary  place  enough 
before  our  coming.  My  wife  became  a  companion  to  her  in 
these  periods  of  painful  seclusion,  and  thus  provided  her  with  a 
luxury  which  had  been  long  denied  her.  Under  these  circum- 
stances we  had  very  much  our  own  way.  The  old  lady  had 
few  associates,  and  these  were  generally  very  worthy  people. 
They  soon  became  our  associates  also,  and  under  the  influence 
of  better  feelings  than  had  governed  me  for  a  long  time  past,  I 
now  found  myself  in  a  condition  of  comfort,  cheerfulness,  and 
peace,  which  I  fancied  I  had  forfeited  for  ever. 

Two  weeks  after  our  arrival,  Kingsley  took  his  departure  for 
Texas,  on  a  visit.  He  proposed  to  be  absent  two  months.  His 
object,  as  he  had  described  it  before,  in  some  pleasant  exagger- 
ations, was  to  select  some  favorable  spots  for  purchase,  which 
should  combine  as  nearly  as  possible  the  three  prime  requisites 
of  salubrity,  fertility,  and  beauty.  His  object  was  to  speculate ; 
"  and  this  was  to  be  done,"  he  said,  "  at  an  early  hour  of  the 
day."  "  The  Spanish  proverb,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "  which 
regulates  the  eating  of  oranges,  is  not  a  bad  rule  to  govern  a 
man  in  making  his  speculations.  Speculations  (oranges)  are 
gold  at  morning,  silver  at  noon,  and  lead  at  night.  It  is  your 
wise  man,"  he  added,  "  who  buys  and  sells  early ;  your  merely 
sensible  man  who  does  so  at  midday ;  while  your  dunce,  wait- 
ing for  an  increased  appetite  at  evening,  swallows  nothing  but 
lead." 

I  was  in  some  respects  a  very  fbrtunate  man.  If  I  had  been 
a  wise  one  !  It  has  been  seen  that  I  was  singularly  successful 
in  business  at  my  first  beginning  in  my  native  city.  I  had  not 

been  long  in  the  town  of  M ,  before  I  began  to  congratulate 

myself  on  the  prospect  of  like  fortune  attending  me  there.  The 
affairs  of  Kingsley  brought  me  into  contact  with  several  men 
of  business.  My  letters  of  introduction  made  me  acquainted* 
with  many  more  ;  not  simply  of  the  town,  but  of  the  neighbor- 
ing country.  My  ardency  of  temper  was  particularly  suited  to 
a  frank,  confiding  people,  such  as  are  most  of  the  southwestern 
men ;  and  one  or  two  accidental  circumstances  yielded  me  pro- 
fessional  occupation  long  before  I  expected  to  find  it.  I  had 
occasion  to  appear  in  court  at  an  early  day,  and  succeeded  in 
making  a  favorable  impression  upon  my  hearers.  To  be  a  good 


806  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

speaker,  in  the  south  and  southwest,  is  to  be  everything.  Elo 
quence  implies  wisdom  —  at  least  all  the  wisdom  which  is  sup- 
posed to  be  necessary  in  making  lawyers  and  law-makers — a 
precious  small  modicum  of  a  material  by  no  means  precious.  I 
was  supposed  to  have  the  gift  of  the  gab  in  moderate  perfection^ 
and  my  hearers  were  indulgent.  My  name  obtained  circulation, 
and,  in  a  short  time,  I  discovered  that,  in  a  professional  as  well 
as  personal  point  of  view,  I  had  no  reason  to  regret  the  change 
of  residence  which  I  had  made.  Business  began  to  flow  in  upon 
me.  Applications  reached  me  from  adjoining  counties,  and 
though  my  fees,  like  the  cases  which  I  was  employed  in, 
were  of  moderate  amount,  they  promised  to  be  frequent,  while 
my  clients  generally  were  very  substantial  persons. 

It  will  not  need  that  I  should  dwell  farther  on  these  topics. 
It  will  be  sufficient  to  show  that,  in  worldly  respects,  I  was  as 
likely  to  prosper  in  my  new  as  in  my  past  abode.  In  social 
respects  I  had  still  more  reason  to  be  gratified.  The  days  went 
by  with  me  as  smoothly  as  with  Thalaba.  My  wife  was  all 
that  I  could  wish.  She  was  the  very  Julia  whom  I  had  mar- 
ried. Nay,  she  was  something  more  —  something  better.  Her 
health  improved,  and  with  it  her  spirits.  She  evidently  had 
no  regrets.  A  sigh  never  escaped  her.  Her  content  and  cheer- 
fulness were  wonderful.  She  had  none  of  that  vague,  vain 
yearning  which  the  feeble  feel,  called  "  home-sickness."  She 
convinced  me  that  I  was  her  home  —  the  only  home  that  she 
desired.  It  was  evident  that  she  thought  less  of  our  ancient 
city  than  I  did  myself.  I  am  sure  that  if  either  of  us,  at  any 
moment,  felt  a  desire  to  look  upon  it  again,  the  person  was  my- 
self. I  maintained  a  correspondence  with  the  place — received 
the  newspapers,  groped  over  them  with  persevering  industry  — 
•nay — missed  not  the  advertisements,  and  was  disappointed  and 
a  discontent  on  those  days  when  the  mail  failed.  My  wife  had 
no  such  appetite.  She  sometimes  read  the  papers,  but  she  ap- 
peared to  have  no  curiosity ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  an  oc- 
casional letter  which  she  received  from  her  mother,  she  had  no 
intercourse  whatever  with  her  former  home. 

All  this  was  calculated  to  satisfy  me.  But  this  was  not  all. 
If  gentleness,  sweetness,  cheerfulness,  and  a  sleepless  consider- 
ation of  one's  wants  and  feelings,  could  convince  any  mortal  of 


THE  BLACK  I>OG  ONCE  MORE  UPON  THE  SCENE.    307 

the  love  of  another — I  must  have  been  satisfied.  We  resumed 
moBt  of  the  habits  which  began  with  our  marriage,  but  which 
Lad  £dsn  so  long  disc  ntinued.  We  roee  with  the  sun,  and 
wen1;  tbrcL'?.  '  Ci'<x  his  example.  Like  him  we  rose  to  the  hill- 
tops, an:  iLen  escended  into  the  valleys.  We  grew  familiar 
with  ta  .,  deepest  shades  of  wood  and  forest  while  the  dewdrops 
were  yet  beading  the  bosoms  of  the  wild  flowers ;  and  we  fol- 
lowed th-s  meandering  course  of  the  Alabama,  long  before  the 
smoking  steamer  vexed  it  with  her  flashing  paddles.  My  pro- 
fessional toils  from  breakfast  to  dinner-time — for  this  interval 
I  studiously  gave  to  my  office,  even  if  I  had  little  to  do  there 
—  occasioned  the  only  interregnum  which  I  knew  in  the  posi- 
tive pleasure?  which  I  enjoyed.  In  the  afternoon  our  enjoy- 
ments were  renewed.  Our  ccttage  was  so  sweetly  secluded, 
that  we  did  not  need  to  go  far  in  order  to  find  the  Elysian  grove 
which  we  desired.  At  the  top  of  our  hill  we  were  surrounded 
by  a  natural  temple  of  proud  pines  —  guarding  the  spot  from 
any  but  that  sort  of  divine  and  religious  light  which  streams 
through  the  painted  windows  of  the  ancient  cathedral.  The 
gay  glances  of  the  sun  came  gliding  through  the  foliage  in 
drops,  and  lay  upon  the  grass  in  little  pale,  fanciful  gleams, 
most  like  eyes  of  fairies  peeping  upward  from  its  velvety  tufts. 
Here  we  read  together  from  the  poets  —  sometimes  Julia  sung, 
even  while  sketching.  Not  unfrequently,  Mrs.  Porterfield  carno 
with  us,  and,  at  such  times,  our  business  was  to  detect  distant 
glimpses  of  barge,  or  steamboat,  as  they  successively  darted 
into  sight,  along  such  of  the  glittering  patches  of  the  Alabama 
as  were  revealed  to  us  in  its  downward  progress  through  the 
woods. 

Our  evenings  were  such  as  hallow  and  make  the  luxury  of 
cottage  life  —  evenings  yielded  up  to  cheerfulness,  to  content 
and  harmony.  Between  music,  and  poetry,  and  painting,  my 
heart  was  subdued  to  the  sweetest  refinements  of  love.  With- 
out the  immorality,  we  had  the  very  atmosphere  of  a  Sybarite 
indulgence.  I  was  enfeebled  by  the  excess  of  sweets ;  and 
the  happiness  which  I  felt  expressed  itself  in  signs.  These  de- 
noted my  presentiments.-  My  apprehensions  were  my  sole 
cause  of  doubt  and  Borrow.  How  could  such  enjoyments  last  ? 
Was  it  possible,  with  any,  that  they  should  last  1  Was  it 


308  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEAKT. 

possible  that  they  should  last  with  me  ]  I  should  have  been 
mad  to  think  it. 

But,  in  the  sweet  delirium  which  their  possession  inspired,  I 
almost  forgot  the  past.  The  soti  of  man  is  the  most  elastic 
thing  in  nature.  Those  harassing  tortures  of  the  h&art  which  I 
had  been  suffering  for  months  —  those  weary  days  of  exhaust- 
ing doubt  —  those  long  nights  of  torturing  suspicion — the  shame 
and  the  fear,  the  sting  of  jialousy,  and  the  suffering — I  had 
almost  forgotten  in  the  absorbing  pleasures  of  my  new  exist- 
ence. If  I  remembered  them  it  was  only  to  smile ;  if  I  thought 
of  William  Edgerton  it  was  only  to  pity; — and,  as  for  Julia, 
deep  was  the  crimson  shadow  upon  my  cheek,  whenever  the  re- 
proachful memory  reminded  me  of  the  tortures  which  I  had  in- 
flicted upon  her  gentle  heart  while  laboring  under  the  tortures 
of  my  own — -when  I  thought  of  the  unmanly  espionage  which 
I  had  maintained  over  conduct  which  I  now  felt  to  be  irre- 
proachable. 

But,  just  at  the  moment  when  I  thus  thought  and  felt — when 
I  no  longer  suffered  and  no  longer  inflicted  pain — when  my 
wife  was  not  only  virtue  in  my  sight,  but  love,  and  beauty,  and 
grace,  and  meekness  —  all  that  was  good  and  all  that  was  dear 
besides; — when  my  sky  was  without  a  cloud,  and  the  evening 
star  shone  through  the  blue  sky  upon  the  green  tops  of  our  cot- 
tage trees,  with  the  serene  lustre  of  a  May-divinity — just  then 
a  thunderbolt  fell  upon  my  dwelling,  and  blackened  the  scene 
for  ever. 

I  had  now  been  three  months  a  resident  in  M ,  and  never 

had  I  been  more  happy — never  less  apprehensive  on  the  score 
of  my  happiness  —  when  I  received  a  letter  from  my  venerable 
friend  and  patron,  the  father  of  William  Edgerton. 

"  My  son,"  he  wrote,  "  is  no  better  than  when  you  left  us. 
We  have  every  reason  to  believe  him  worse.  He  has  a  cough, 
he  is  very  thin,  and  there  is  a  flushed  spot  upon  his  cheek  which 
seems  to  his  mother  and  myself  the  indubitable  sign  of  vital 
decay.  His  frame  is  very  feeble,  and  our  physician  advises 
travel.  Under  this  counsel  he  set  off  with  a  favorite  servant  on 
Wednesday  of  last  week.  He  will  make  easy  stages  through 
Tennessee  to  the  Ohio,  will  descend  into  Mississippi,  and  return 
home  by  way  of  Alabama.  He  contemplates  paying  you  a 


THE  BLACK  DOG  ONCE  MORE  UPON  THE  SCENE.   309 

brief  visit.  I  need  not  say,  dear  Clifford,  how  grateful  I  shall 
be  for  any  kindness  which  you  can  show  to  niy  poor  boy.  His 
mother  particularly  invokes  it.  I  should  not  have  deemed  it 
necessary  to  say  so  much,  but  would  have  preferred  leaving  it 
to  William  to  make  his  own  communication,  were  it  not  that  she 
so  particularly  desires  it.  It  may  be  well  to  add,  that  on  one 
subject  we  are  both  very  much  relieved.  We  now  have  reason 
to  believe  that  our  apprehensions  on  the  score  of  his  morals 
were  without  foundation.  It  is  our  present  belief  that  he  neither 
gamed  nor  drank.  This  is  a  consolation,  dear  Clifford,  though 
it  brings  us  no  nigher  to  our  wish.  It  is  something  to  believe 
that  the  object  of  our  love  is  not  worthless ;  though  it  adds  to 
the  pang  that  we  should  feel  in  the  event  of  losing  him.  Our 
parting  would  be  less  easy.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  little 
hope  that  his  journey  will  do  him  any  material  benefit.  It  may 
prolong  his  clays,  but  can  not,  I  fear,  have  any  more  decided  in- 
fluence upon  his  disease.  His  mother,  however,  is  more  san- 
guine, and  it  is  perhaps  well  that  she  should  be  so.  I  know 
that  when  William  reaches  your  neighborhood,  you  will  make 
it  as  cheerful  and  pleasant  to  him  as  possible.  The  talent  of 
your  young  and  sweet  wife  —  her  endowments  in  painting  and 
music  —  have  always  been  a  great  solace  to  him.  His  tastes 
you  know  are  very  much  like  hers.  I  trust  she  will  exercise 
them,  and  be  happy  in  ministering  to  the  comfort  of  one,  who 
will  not,  I  fear,  trespass  very  long  upon  any  earthly  ministry. 
My  dear  Clifford,  I  know  that  you  will  do  your  utmost  in  be- 
half of  your  earliest  friend,  and  I  will  waste  no  more  words  in 
unnecessary  solicitation." 

Such  was  the  important  portion  of  the  letter.  In  an  instant, 
as  I  read  it,  I  saw,  with  the  instinct  of  jealousy,  the  annihila- 
tion of  all  my  hopes  of  happiness.  All  my  dreams  were  in  the 
dust — all  my  fancies  scattered — my  schemes  and  temples 
overthrown.  Bitter  was  the  pang  I  felt  on  reading  this  letter. 
It  said  more- — -much  more  —  in  the  very  language,  of  solicita- 
tion .vhich  fciicj  good  old  father  professed  to  believe  unnecessary. 
He  poured  fori'h  the  language  of  a  father's  grief  and  entreaty. 
I  felt  for  tha  venerable  man  —  the  true  friend — in  spite  of  my 
own  miserable  apprehensions.  I  felt  for  him,  but  what  could  I 
do  ?  What  would  he  have  me  do  ?  I  had  no  house  in  which 


310  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

to  receive  his  son.  He  would  lodge,  perhaps,  for  a  time,  in  the 
community.  It  could  not  be  supposed  that  he  would  remain 
long.  The  letter  of  the  father  spoke  only  of  a  brief  visit 
Our  neighborhood  had  no  repute,  as  a  place  of  resort,  for  con- 
sumptive patients.  I  consoled  myself  with  the  reflection  that 
William  Edgerton  could,  on  no  pretence,  linger  more  than  a 
week  or  two  among  us.  I  will  treat  him  kindly — give  him  the 
freedom  of  the  house  while  he  remains.  A  dying  man,  if  so  he 
be,  must  have  reached  a  due  sense  of  his  situation,  and  will  not 
be  likely  to  trespass  upon  the  rights  of  another.  His  passions 
must  be  subdued  by  this  time.  Ah  !  but  will  not  his  condition 
be  more  likely  to  inspire  sympathy  ? 

The  fiend  of  the  blind  heart  prompted  that  last  suggestion. 
It  was  the  only  one  that  I  remembered.  When  I  returned 
home  that  day  to  dinner,  I  mentioned,  as  if  casually,  the  letter 
I  had  received,  and  the  contents.  My  eye  narrowly  watched 
that  of  my  wife  while  I  spoke.  Hers  sunk  beneath  my  glance 
Her  cheeks  were  suddenly  flushed — then,  as  suddenly,  grew 
pale,  and  I  observed,  that,  though  she  appeared  to  eat,  but  few 
morsels  of  food  were  carried  into  her  mouth  that  day.  She 
soon  left  the  table,  and,  pleading  headache  declined  joining  me 
in  our  usual  evening  rambles. 


TBIAL  —  THE   WOMAN   GROWS  STRONG,  311 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

TRIAL — THE   WOMAN    GROWS   STRONG. 

THUS,  then,  I  was  once  more  at  sea,  rudderless — not  yet 
companionless  —  perhaps,  soon  to  be  so.  My  relapse  was  as 
sudden  as  my  thought.  It  seemed  as  if  every  past  misery  of 
doubt  and  suspicion  were  at  once  revived  within  me.  All  my 
day-dreams  vanished  in  an  instant.  William  Edgerton  would 
again  behold — would  again  seek — my  wife.  They  must  meet; 
I  owed  that  to  the  father ;  and,  whatever  the  condition  of  the 
son  might  be,  it  was  evident  that  his  feelings  toward  her  must 
be  the  same  as  ever;  else,  why  should  he  seek  her  out?  —  why 
pursue  our  footsteps  and  haunt  my  peace  ?  I  must  receive  him 
and  treat  him  kindly  for  the  father's  sake ;  but  that  one  bitter 
thought,  that  he  was  pursuing  us,  the  deadly  enemy  to  my  peace 
— and  now,  evidently,  a  wilful  one — gave  venom  to  the  bitter 
feeling  with  which  I  had  so  long  regarded  his  attentions. 

It  was  evident,  too,  whatever  may  have  been  its  occasion, 
that  the  knowledge  of  his  coming  awakened  strange  emotions 
in  the  bosom  of  my  wife.  That  blush — that  sudden  paleness 
of  the  cheek — what  was  their  language?  I  fain  would  have 
struggled  against  the  conviction,  that  it  denoted  a  guilty  con- 
sciousness of  the  past  —  a  guilty  feeling  of  the  future.  But  the 
mocking  demon  of  the  blind  heart  forced  the  assurance  upon 
me.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Ah  !  what  ?  This  was  the  ques- 
tion, and  there  was  no  variation  in  the  reply  which  my  jealous 
spirit  made.  There  was  but  one  refuge.  I  must  pursue  the 
same  insidious  policy  as  before.  I  must  resort  to  the  same  subter- 
fuge, meet  them  with  the  same  smiles,  disguise  once  more  the  true 
features  of  my  soul ;  seem  to  shut  my  eyes,  and  afford  them  the 


312  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEABT. 

same  opportunities  as  before,  in  the  torturing  hope  (fear  ?)  that 
I  should  finally  detect  them  in  some  guilty  folly  which  would 
he  sufficient  to  justify  the  final  punishment.  I  must  put  on  the 
aspect  of  indifference,  the  better  to  pursue  the  vocation  of 
the  spy. 

Base  necessity,  but  still,  as  I  then  fancied,  a  necessity  not 
the  less.  Ah  I  was  I  not  a  thing  to  be  pitied  ?  Was  ever  any 
case  more  pitiable  than  mine  ?  I  ask  not  this  question  with 
any  hope  that  an  answer  may  be  found  to  justify  my  conduct. 
It  is  not  the  less  pitiable — nay,  it  is  more — that  no  such  an- 
swer can  be  found.  My  folly  is  not  the  less  a  thing  of  pity, 
because  it  is  also  a  thing  of  scorn.  That  was  the  pity  —  and 
yet,  I  was  most  severely  tried.  Deep  were  my  sufferings ! 
Strong  was  that  demon  within  me — I  care  not  how  engendered, 
whether  by  the  fault  and  folly  of  others,  or  by  my  own  —  still 
it  was  strong.  If  I  was  guilty — base,  blind — was  I  not  also 
suffering  ?  Never  did  I  inflict  on  the  bosom  of  Julia  Clifford, 
so  deep  a  pang  as  I  daily  —  nay,  hourly,  inflicted  upon  my  own. 
She  was  a  victim,  true  —  but  was  I  less  so!  But  she  was  in- 
nocently a  victim,  therefore,  less  a  sufferer,  whatever  her  suffer- 
ings, than  me  !  Let  none  condemn  or  curse  me,  till  they  have 
asked  what  curse  I  have  already  undergone.  I  live! — they 
will  say.  Ah  !  me  !  They  must  ask  what  is  the  value  of  life, 
not  to  themselves,  but  to  a  crushed,  a  blasted  heart,  like  mine ! 
But  I  hurry  forward  with  my  pangs  rather  than  my  story. 

Instantly,  a  barrier  seemed  to  rise  up  between  Julia  Clifford 
and  myself.  She  had  her  consciousness,  evidently,  no  less  than 
I.  What  was  that  consciousness  ?  Ah  !  could  I  have  guessed 
that,  there  would  have  been  no  barrier  —  all  might  have  been 
peace  again.  But  a  destiny  was  at  work  which  forbade  it  all ; 
and  we  strove  ignorantly  with  one  another  and  against  ourselves. 
There  was  a  barrier  between  us,  which  our  mutual  blindness  of 
heart  made  daily  thicker,  and  higher,  and  less  liable  to  over- 
throw. A  coldness  overspread  my  manner.  I  made  it  a  sort 
of  shelter.  The  guise  of  indifference  is  one  of  the  most  conve- 
nient for  hiding  other  and  darker  feelings.  Already  we  ceased 
to  ramble  by  river  and  through  wood.  Already  the  pencil  was 
discarded.  We  could  no  longer  enjoy  the  things  which  so  lately 
made  us  happy,  because  we  no  longer  entertained  the  same  con- 


TRIAL  —  THE  WOMAN  GROWS  STRONG.  313 

fidence  in  one  another.  Without  this  confidence  there  is  no 
communion  sweet.  And  all  this  had  been  the  work  of  that  let- 
ter. The  name  of  William  Edgsrton  had  done  it  all — his  name 
and  threatened  visit ! 

But — and  I  read  the  letter  again  and  again — it  would  be 
some  time  before  he  might  be  expected.  The  route,  as  laid 
down  for  him  by  his  father,  was  a  protracted  one.  "  Through 
Georgia,  Tennessee,  Mississippi,  then  homeward,  by  way  of 
Alabama."  "  He  can  not  be  here  in  lies  than  six  weeks.  He 
must  travel  slowly.  He  must  make  frequent  rests.' * 

And  there  was  a  further  thought  —  a  hope — which,  though 
it  filled  my  mind,  I  did  not  venture  to  express  in  words.  "  He 
may  perish  on  his  route :  if  he  be  so  feeble,  it  is  by  no  means 
improbable !" 

At  all  events,  I  had  six  weeks'  respite— perhaps  more.  Such 
was  my  small  consolation  then.  But  even  this  was  false.  In 
less  than  a  week  from  that  time,  William  Edgerton  etood  at  the 
door  of  our  cottage ! 

Instead  of  going  into  Tennessee,  he  had  ;hot  straight  forward, 
through  Georgia,  into  Alabama. 

Though  surprised,  I  was  not  confounded  by  his  presence. 
Under  the  policy  which  I  had  resolved  upon,  I  received  him 
with  the  usual  professions  of  kindness,  and  a  manner  as  nearly 
warm  and  natural  as  the  exercise  of  habitual  art  could  make  it 
He  certainly  did  look  very  miserable,  ilis  features  wore  an 
expression  of  uniform  despair.  The}'  brightenai  up,  when  he 
beheld  my  wife,  as  the  cloud  brightens  suddenly  beneath  the 
moonlight.  His  eyes  were  riveted  upon  her.  He  was  almost 
speechless,  but  he  advanced  and  took  her  hand,  which  I  observed 
was  scarcely  extended  to  him.  He  sat  the  evening  with  us, 
and  a  chilly,  dull  evening  it  was.  He  himself  spoke  little— 
my  wife  less ;  and  the  conversation,  such  as  it  was,  was  carried 
on  chiefly  between  old  Mrs.  Porterfield  and  myself.  But  I 
could  see  that  Edgerton  employed  his  eyes  in  a  manner  which 
fully  compensated  for  the  silence  of  his  tongue.  They  were 
seldom  withdrawn  from  the  quarter  of  the  apartment  in  which 
my  wife  sat.  When  withdrawn,  it  was  but  for  an  instant,  and 
they  soon  again  reverted  to  the  spot.  He  had  certainly  ac- 
quired a  degree  of  boldness,  which,  in  this  respect  he  had  not 

14 


314  CONFESSION,  OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

before  possessed.  I  keenly  analyzed  his  looks  without  provo- 
king his  attention.  It  was  not  possible  for  me  to  mistake  the  unre- 
served admiration  that  his  glance  expressed.  There  was  a  strange 
spiritual  expression  in  his  eyes,  which  was  painful  to  the  spec- 
tator. It  was  that  fearful  sign  which  the  soul  invariably  makes 
when  it  begins  f.  exert  itself  at  the  expense  of  the  shell  which 
contains  it.  It  was  the  sign  of  death  already  written.  But  ha 
might  linger  for  months.  His  cough  did  not  seem  to  me  op- 
pressive. The  flush  was  not  so  obvious  upon  his  cheek.  Per- 
haps, looking  through  the  medium  of  my  peculiar  feelings,  his 
condition  was  not  half  so  apparent  as  his  designs.  At  least,  I 
felt  my  sympathies  in  his  behalf — small  as  they  were  before — 
become  feebler  with  every  moment  of  his  stay  that  night. 

"  Edgerton  does  not  appear  to  me  to  look  so  badly,"  I  said  to 
Julia,  after  his  departure  for  the  evening. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered;  "he  looks  very  pale  and 
miserable." 

"  Quite  interesting !"  I  added,  with  a  smile  which  might  have 
been  a  sneer. 

"Painfully  so.  He  can  not  last  very  long — his  cough  is 
very  troublesome." 

"  Indeed !  I  scarcely  heard  it.  He  is  certainly  a  very  fine- 
looking  fellow  still,  consumption  or  no  consumption." 

She  was  silent. 

"  A  very  grr-ceful  fellow :  very  generous  and  with  accom- 
plishments such  £"  are  possessed  by  few.  I  have  often  envied 
him  his  person  and  accomplishments." 

"  You?"  she  exclaimed,  with  something  like  an  expression  of 
incredulity. 

"Yes! — that  is  to  say,  when  I  was  a  youth,  and  when  1 
thought  more  of  commending  myself  to  your  eyes,  than  of  any- 
thing besides." 

"Ah !"  she  replied  with  an  assuring  smile,  "you  never  need- 
ed qualities  other  than  your  own  to  commend  yourself  to  me." 

"  Pleasant  hypocrite !  And  yet,  Julia,  would  you  not  be 
better  pleased  if  I  could  draw  and  color,  and  talk  landscape 
with  you  by  the  hour  ?" 

"  No  !  I  have  never  thought  of  your  doing  anything  of  tho 
kind." 


TRIAL  —  THE  WOMAN  GROWS  STRONG.  315 

a  Like  begets  liking." 

"  It  may  be,  but  I  do  not  think  so.  I  do  not  think  we  love 
people  so  much  for  what  they  can  do,  as  for  what  they  are." 

"  Ah,  Julia,  that  is  a  great  mistake.  It  is  a  law  in  moials, 
that  the  qualities  of  men  should  depend  upon  their  performances 
What  a  man  is,  results  from  what  he  does,  and  so  we  judge  of 
persons.  Edgerton  is  a  noble  fellow ;  his  tastes  are  very  fine. 
I  suspect  he  can  form  as  correct  an  opinion  of  a  fine  picture  aa 
any  one — perhaps,  paint  it  as  finely." 

She  was  silent.  * 

"  Do  you  not  think  so,  Julia  ?" 

"  I  think  he  paints  very  well  for  an  amateur." 

"  He  is  certainly  a  man  of  exquisite  taste  in  most  matters  of 
taste  and  elegance.  I  have  always  thought  his  manners  partic- 
ularly easy  and  dignified.  His  carriage  is  at  once  manly  and 
graceful ;  and  his  dancing — do  you  not  think  he  dances  with 
admirable  flexibility  ?" 

"  Really,  Edward,  I  can  scarcely  regard  dancing  as  a  manly 
accomplishment.  It  is  necessary  that  a  gentleman  should  dance, 
perhaps,  but  it  appears  to  me  that  he  should  do  so  simply  be- 
cause it  is  necessary ;  and  to  pass  through  the  measure  without 
ostentation  or  offence  should  be  his  simple  object." 

"  These  are  not  usually  the  opinions  of  ladies,  Julia." 

"They  are  mine,  however." 

"You  are  not  sure.  You  will  think  otherwise  to-morrow. 
At  all  events,  I  think  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  Edgerton 
is  one  of  the  best  dancers  in  the  circle  we  have  left ;  he  has  the 
happiest  taste  in  painting  and  poetry ;  and  a  more  noble  gentle- 
man and  true  friend  does  not  exist  anywhere.  I  know  not  to 
whom  I  could  more  freely  confide  life,  wealth,  and  honor,  than 
to  him." 

She  was  silent.  I  fancied  there  was  something  like  distress 
apparent  in  her  countenance.  I  continued :  — 

"  There  is  one  thing,  Julia,  about  which  I  am  not  altogether 
satisfied." 

"  Ah !"  with  much  anxiety ;  "  what  is  that  ?" 

"  I  owe  so  much  to  his  father,  that,  in  his  present  condition* 
I  fancv  we  ought  to  receive  him  in  our  house.  We  should  not 


316  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

let  him  go  among  strangers,  exposed  to  the  noise  and  neglect 
of  a  hotel." 

There  was  some  abruptness  in  her  answer  :— 

"  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  bring  him  here.  You  forget  that 
we  are  mere  lodgers  ourselves ;  indebted  for  our  accommodation 
to  the  kindness  of  a  lady  upon  whom  we  should  have  no  right 
to  press  other  lodgers.  Such  an  arrangement  would  crowd  the 
nouse,  and  make  all  parties  uncomfortable.  Besides,  I  suppose 

Mr.  Edgerton  will  scarcely  remain  long  enough  in  M co 

make  it  of  much  importance  where  he  lodges,  and  when  he  finds 
the  tavern  uncomfortable  he  will  take  his  departure." 

"  But  should  he  get  sick  at  the  tavern  ?" 

"  Such  a  chance  would  follow  him  wherever  he  went.  That 
is  the  risk  which  every  man  incurs  when  he  goes  abroad.  He 
has  a  servant  with  him — no  doubt  a  favorite  servant." 

"  Should  he  get  sick,  Julia,  even  a  favorite  servant  will  not 
be  enough.  It  will  be  our  duty  to  make  other  provision  for 
him.  I  owe  his  father  much ;  the  old  man  evidently  expects 
much  from  me  by  his  last  letter.  I  owe  the  son  much.  He 
has  been  a  true  friend  to  me.  I  must  do  for  him  as  if  he  were 
a  brother,  and  should  he  get  sick,  Julia,  you  must  be  his  nurse." 

"Impossible,  Mr.  Clifford  !"  she  replied,  with  unwonted  en- 
ergy, while  a  deep,  dark  flush  settled  over  her  otherwise 
placid  features,  which  were  now  not  merely  discomposed  but 
ruffled.  "  It  is  impossible  that  I  should  be  what  you  require. 
Suffer  me,  in  this  case,  to  determine  my  duties  for  myself.  Do 
for  your  friend  what  you  think  proper.  You  can  provide  a 
nurse,  and  secure  by  money,  the  best  attendance  in  the  town. 
I  do  not  think  that  I  can  do  better  service  than  a  hundred  others 
whom  you  may  procure ;  and  you  will  permit  me  to  say,  with- 
out seeking  to  displease  you,  that  I  will  not  attempt  it." 

I  was  not  displeased  at  what  she  said,  but  it  was  not  my  pol- 
icy  to  admit  this.  With  an  air  almost  of  indignation,  I  replied : 

"  And  you  would  leave  my  friend  to  perish  ?" 

"  I  trust  he  will  not  perish — I  sincerely  trust  he  will  continue 
in  health  while  he  remains  here.  I  implore  you,  dear  husband, 
to  make  no  requisition  such  as  this.  I  can  not  serve  your  friend 
in  this  capacity.  I  pray  that  he  may  not  need  it" 

"  But  should  he  ?" 


TEIAL — THE  WOMAN  GBOWS  STBONG.  817 

"  I  can  not  serve  him." 

*  Julia,  you  are  a  cold-hearted  woman — you  do  not  love  me." 

"Cold-hearted,  Edward,  cold-hearted?  Not  love  you,  Ed- 
ward?—  Oh,  surely,  you  can  not  mean  it.  No!  no!  you  can 
not!" 

She  threw  herself  into  my  arms,  clasped  me  fondly  in  herg, 
and  the  warm  tears  from  her  eyes  gushed  into  m/  bosom. 

"  Love  me,  love  my  dog — at  least  my  friend  !"  I  exclaimed, 
in  austere  accents,  but  without  repulsing  her.  I  could  not  re- 
pulse her.  I  had  not  strength  to  put  her  from  me.  The  em- 
brace was  too  dear ;  and  the  energy  with  which  she  rejected  a 
suggestion  in  which  I  proposed  only  to  try  and  test  her,  maia 
her  doubly  dear  at  that  moment  to  my  bosom.  Alas  i  how,  La 
the  attempt  to  torture  others,  do  we  torture  ourselves !  If  * 
afflicted  Julia  in  this  scene,  I  am  very  sure  that  my  own  suffer- 
ings were  more  intense.  One  thing  alone  would  have  made 
them  so.  The  one  quality  of  evil,  of  the  bad  spirit  which  min- 
gled in  with  my  feelings,  and  did  not  trouble  hers.  But,  just 
then  I  did  not  think  her  innocent  altogether.  I  still  had  my 
doubts  that  her  resistance  to  my  wishes  was  simply  meant  to 
conceal  that  tendency  in  her  own,  the  exposure  of  which  she 
had  naturally  every  reason  to  dread.  The  demon  of  the  blind 
heart,  though  baffled  f&r  awhile,  was  still  busy.  Alas  !  he  was 
not  always  to  be  baffled 


CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEA&T, 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

L'UK?0'JB8, 


passed  and  still  William  Edgerton  was  a  resident  of 
M  —  -,  and  s,  constant  guest  at  onr  little  cottage.  He  had,  in 
tms  time,  effectually  broken  up  the  harmony  and  banished  the 
peace  which  had  previously  prevailed  there.  The  unhappy  young 
man  pursued  the  same  insane  course  of  conduct  which  had  been 
productive  of  so  much  bitterness  and  trouble  to  us  all  before  ; 
and,  under  the  influence  of  my  evil  demon,  I  adopted  the  same 
blind  policy  which  had  already  been  so  fruitful  of  misery  to  my- 
self and  wife.  I  gave  them  constant  opportunities  together. 
I  found  my  associates,  and  pursued  my  pastimes  —  pastimes  in- 
deed —  away  from  home.  Poetry  and  song  were  given  up— 
we  no  longer  wandered  by  the  river-side,  and  upon  the  green 
heights  of  our  sacred  hill.  My  evenings  were  consumed  in 
dreary  rambles,  alone  with  my  own  evfl  thoughts,  and  miserable 
fancies,  or  consumed  with  yellow-eyed  watching,  from  porch  or 
tree,  upon  those  privacies  of  the  suspected  lovers,  in  which  I 
had  so  shamefully  indulged  before.  I  felt  the  baseness  of  this 
vocation,  but  I  had  not  the  strength  to  give  it  up.  I  know 
there  is  no  extenuation  for  it.  I  know  that  it  was  base  !  base  ! 
base  !  It  is  a  point  of  conscience  with  me,  not  only  to  declare 
the  truth,  but  to  call  things  by  the  truest  and  most  characteristic 
names.  Let  me  do  my  understanding  the  justice  to  say  that, 
even  when  I  practised  the  meanness,  I  was  not  ignorant  —  not 
insensible  of  its  character.  It  was  the  strength  only  —  the 
courage  to  do  right,  and  to  forbear  the  wrong  —  in  which  I  was 
deficient.  It  was  the  blind  heart,  not  the  unknowing  head  to 
which  the  shame  was  attributable,  though  the  pang  fell  not  un- 
equally upon  heart  and  head. 


CROSS  PURPOSES.  319 

Meanwhile,  Kingsley  returned  from  Texas.  He  became  my 
principal  companion.  We  strolled  together  in  my  leisure  hours 
by  day.  We  sat  and  smoked  together  in  his  chamber  by  night. 
My  blind  fortitude  may  be  estimated,  when  the  reader  is  told 
that  Kingsley  professed  to  find  me  a  very  agreeable  companion. 
He  complimented  me  on  my  liveliness,  my  wit,  my  humor,  and 
what  not — and  this,  too,  when  I  was  all  the  while  meditating, 
with  the  acutest  feeling  of  apprehension,  upon  the  very  last 
wrong  which  the  spirit  of  man  is  found  willing  to  endure ; — 
when  I  believed  that  the  ruin  of  my  house  was  at  hand ;  when 
I  believed  that  the  ruin  of  my  heart  and  hope  had  already  taken 
place  : — and  when,  hungering  only  for  the  necessary  degree  of 
proof  which  justice  required  before  conviction,  I  was  laying  my 
gins  and  snares  with  the  view  to  detecting  the  offenders,  and 
consummating  the  last  terrible  but  necessary  work  of  vengeance  ! 
But  Kingsley  did  not  confine  himself  altogether  to  the  language 
of  compliment. 

"  Good  fellow  and  good  companion  as  you  are,  Clifford — and 
loath  as  I  should  be  to  give  up  these  pleasant  evenings,  still 
I  think  you  very  wrong  in  one  respect.  You  neglect  your 
wife." 

"  Ha  !  ha !  what  an  idea !     You  are  not  serious  ?" 

"  As  a  judge." 

"  Psha !     She  does  not  miss  me." 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  answered  gravely — "but  for  your  own 
Bake  if  not  for  hers,  it  seems  to  me  you  should  pursue  a  more 
domestic  course." 

"  What  mean  you  ]" 

"  You  leave  your  wife  too  much  to  herself! — nay — let  me  be 
frank — not  too  much  to  herself,  for  there  would  be  little  danger 
in  that,  but  too  much  with  that  fellow  Edgerton." 

"  What  ?    You  would  not  have  me  jealous,  Kingsley  ?" 

"  No  !     Only  prudent." 

"  You  dislike  Edgerton,  Kingsley." 

"  I  do  !  I  frankly  confess  it.  I  think  he  wants  manliness  of 
character,  and  such  a  man  always  lacks  sincerity.  But  I  do 
not  speak  of  him.  I  should  utter  the  same  opinion  with  respect 
to  any  other  man,  in  similar  circumstances.  A  wife  is  a  depen- 
dent creature — apt  to  be  weak  ! — If  young,  she  is  susceptible 


320  CONFESSION,    OR   THE    BLIND    HEART. 

—  equally  susceptible  to  the  attentions  of  another  and  to  the 
neglect  of  her  husband.     I  do  not  say  that  such  is  the  case 
with  your  wife.     Far  from  it.     I  esteem  her  very  much  as  a  re- 
markable woman.     But  women  were  intended  to  be  dependents. 
Most    of  them  are   governed   by  sensibilities   rather   than    by 
principles.     Impulse  leads  them  and  misleads.     The  wife  finds 
herself  neglected  by  the  very  man  who,  in  particular,  owes  her 
duty.     She  finds  herself   entertained,  served,  watched,  tended 
with  sleepless  solicitude,  by  another ;  one,  not  wanting  either  in 
personal  charms  and  accomplishments,  and  having  similar  tastes 
ai<d  talents.     What  should  be  the  result  of  this  ?     Will  she  not 
become    indifferent   where    she    finds    indifference  —  devoted 
where  she  finds  devotion  ?     A  cunning  fellow,  like  Edgerton, 
may,  under  these  circumstances,  rob  a  man  of  his  wife's  affec- 
tions.    Mark  me,  I  do  not  say  that  he  will  do  anything  positive- 
ly dishonorable,  at  least  in  the  world's  acceptation  of  the  term. 
I  do  not  intimate  —  I  would  not  willingly  believe — that  she 
would  submit  to  anything  of  the  sort.  I  speak  of  the  affections,  not 
of  the  virtues.  There  is  shame  to  the  man  in  his  wife's  dishonor ; 
but  the  misfortune  of  losing  her  affections  is  neither  more  nor 
less  than  the  suffering  without  the  shame.     Look  to  it.     I  do 
not  wish  to  prejudice  your  mind  against  Edgerton.     Far  from 
it.     I  have  forborne  to  speak  hitherto  because  I  knew  that  my 
own  mind  was  prejudiced  against  him.     Even  now  I  say  nothing 
against  him.     What  I  say  has  reference  to  your  conduct  only. 
I  do  not  think  Edgerton  a  bad  man.     I  think  him  a  weak  one. 
Weak  as  a  woman  —  governed,  like  her,  by  impulse  rather  than 
by  principle  —  easily  led  away — incapable  of  resisting  where 
his  affections  are  concerned — repenting  soon,  and  sinning,  in 
the  same  way,  as  fast  as  he  repents.    He  is  weak,  very  weak 

—  washy-weak — he  wants  stamina,  and,  wanting  that,  wants 
principle !" 

"  Strange  enough,  if  you  should  be  right !  How  do  you 
reconcile  this  opinion  with  his  refusal  to  lend  you  money  to  game 
upon  ?  He  was  governed  in  that  by  principle." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  He  was  governed  by  habit.  He  knew 
nothing  of  gambling — had  heard  his  father  always  preaching 
against  it — it  was  not  a  temptation  with  him.  His  tastes  were 
of  another  sort.  He  could  not  be  tried  in  that  way.  The  very 


CROSS  PURPOSES.  821 

fact  that  he  was  susceptible,  in  particular,  to  the  charms  of 
female  society,  saved  him  from  the  passion  for  gaming,  as  it 
would  save  him  from  the  passion  for  drink.  But  the  very  tastes 
that  saved  him  from  one  passion  make  him  particularly  suscepti- 
ble to  another.  He  can  stand  the  temptation  of  play,  but  not 
that  of  women.  Let  him  be  tried  there,  and  he  falls  !  his  prin- 
ciple would  not  save  him — would  not  be  worth  a  straw  to  a 
drowning  man." 

"You  underrate — undervalue  Edgerton.  He  has  always 
been  a  true,  generous  friend  of  mine." 

"  Be  it  so  !  with  that  I  have  nothing  to  do.  But  friendship 
has  its  limits  which  it  can  not  pass.  Were  Edgerton  truly  your 
friend,  he  would  advise  you  as  I  have  done.  Nay,  a  proper 
sense  of  friendship  and  of  delicacy  would  have  kept  him  from 
paying  that  degree  of  attention  to  the  wife  which  must  be  an 
hourly  commentary  on  the  neglect  of  her  husband.  I  confess 
to  you  it  was  this  very  fact  that  made  me  resolve  to  speak  to 
you." 

"  I  thank  you,  my  dear  fellow,  but  I  have  nothing  to  fear. 
Poor  Edgerton  is  dying — music  and  painting  are  his  solace  — 
they  minister  to  his  most  active  tastes.  As  for  Julia,  she  is  im- 
maculate." 

"  I  distrust  neither ;  but  you  should  not  throw  away  your 
pearl,  because  you  think  it  can  not  suffer  stain." 

"  I  do  not  throw  it  away." 

"  You  do  not  sufficiently  cherish  it." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do  —  wear  it  constantly  in  my 
bosom  ?" 

"  No  !  not  exactly  that ;  but  at  least  wear  nothing  else  there 
so  frequently  or  so  closely  as  that." 

"  I  do  not.  I  fancy  I  am  a  very  good  husband.  You  shall 
not  put  me  out  of  humor,  Kiugsley,  either  with  my  wife  or  my- 
self. You  shall  not  make  me  jealous.  I  am  no  Othello — I 
have  no  visitations  of  the  moon." 

And  I  laughed — laughed  while  speaking  thus — though  the 
keen  pang  was  writhing  at  that  moment  like  a  burning  arrow 
through  my  brain. 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  make  you  jealous,  Clifford,  and  I  very 
much  admire  your  superiority  and  strength.  I  congratulate  you 


322  CONFESSION,  OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

on  your  singular  freedom  from  this  unhappy  passion.  But  you 
may  become  too  confident.  You  may  lose  your  wife's  affections 
by  your  neglect,  when  you  might  not  lose  them  by  treachery." 

"  You  are  grown  a  croaker,  Kingsley,  and  I  will  leave  you. 
I  will  go  home.  I  will  show  you  what  a  good  husband  I  am, 
or  can  become." 

"  That's  right ;  but  smoke  another  cigar  before  you  go." 

"  There  it  is  !"  I  exclaimed,  laughingly.  "  You  blow  hot  and 
cold.  You  would  have  me  go  and  stay." 

"  Take  the  cigar,  at  least,  and  smoke  it  as  you  go.  My  ad- 
vice is  good,  and  that  it  is  honest  you  may  infer  from  my  re- 
luctance to  part  with  you.  I  will  see  you  at  the  office  at  nine 
in  the  morning.  There  is  some  prospect  of  a  compromise  with 
Jeffords  about  the  tract  in  Dallas,  and  he  is  to  meet  Wharton 
and  myself  at  your  law-shop  to-morrow.  It  is  important  to 
make  an  arrangement  with  Jeffords — his  exampls  will  be  felt 
by  Brownsell  and  Gibbon.  We  may  escape  a  long-winded  law- 
suit, after  all,  to  your  great  discomfiture  and  my  gain.  But 
you  do  not  hear  me  !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  every  word — you  spoke  of  Jeffords,  and  Wharton, 
and  Gibbon  —  yes,  I  heard  you." 

"  Now  I  know  that  you  did  not  hear  me — not  understanding- 
ly,  at  least.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  I  have  made  you  jeal- 
ous. You  look  wild,  mon  ami  /" 

"Jealous,  indeed!  what  nonsense!"  and  I  prepared  to  de- 
part when  I  had  thus  spoken. 

"  Well,  at  nine  you  must  meet  us  at  the  office.  My  business 
must  not  suffer  because  you  are  jealous." 

"  Come,  no  more  of  that,  Kingsley !" 

"  By  heavens,  you  are  touched." 

He  laughed  merrily.  I  laughed  also,  but  with  a  choking  ef- 
fort which  almost  cost  me  a  convulsion  as  I  left  the  tavern.  The 
sport  of  Kingsley  was  my  death.  What  he  had  said  previously 
sunk  deep  into  my  soul.  Not  rightly  —  not  as  it  should  have 
sunk  —  showing  me  the  folly  of  my  own  course  without  assu- 
ming, as  I  did,  the  inevitable  wilfulness  of  the  course  of  others ; 
but  actually  confirming  me  in  my  fears — nay,  making  them 
grow  hideous  as  things  and  substantive  convictions.  It  seemed 
to  me,  from  what  Kingsley  said  that  I  was  already  dishonored 


CROSS  PURPOSES.  323 

—that  the  world  already  knew  my  shame;  and  that  he,  as  my 
friend,  had  only  employed  an  ambiguous  language  to  soften  tha 
sting  and  the  shock  which  his  revelations  must  necessarily  oc 
casion.  With  this  new  notion,  which  occurred  to  me  after  leav- 
ing the  house,  I  instantly  returned  to  it.  It  required  a  strong 
effort  to  seem  deliberate  in  what  I  spoke. 

"  Kingsley,"  I  said,  "  perhaps  I  did  not  pay  sufficient  heed 
to  your  observations.  Do  you  mean  to  convey  to  my  mind  th  i 
idea  that  people  think  Edgerton  too  familiar  with  my  wife  ? 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  such  a  notion  is  abroad  ?  That  thertv 
is  anything  wrong  ?" 

"  By  no  means." 

"  Ah  !  then  there  is  nothing  in  it.  I  see  no  reason  for  sus- 
picion. I  am  not  a  jealous  man;  but  it  becomes  necsnsary 
when  one's  neighbors  find  occasion  to  look  into  one's  business, 
to  look  a  little  into  it  one's  self." 

"  One  must  not  wait  for  that,"  said  Kingsley ;  "  but  where  is 
your  cigar  ?" 

The  question  confused  me.  I  had  dropped  it  in  the  agitation 
of  my  feelings,  without  being  conscious  of  its  loss. 

"  Take  another,"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  "  and  let  your  cares 
end  in  smoke  as  you  wend  homeward.  My  most  profound 
thoughts  come  from  my  cigar.  To  that  I  look  for  my  philoso- 
phy, my  friendship,  my  love  —  almost  my  religion.  A  cigar  is 
a  brain-comforter,  verily.  You  should  smoke  more,  Clifford. 
You  will  grow  better,  wiser  —  cooler" 

"  I  take  your  cigar  and  counsel  together,"  was  my  reply. 
"  The  one  shall  reconcile  me  to  the  other.  "Bon  repos  /"  And 
so  I  left  him. 

I  was  not  likely  to  have  Ion  repos  myself.  I  was  troubled. 
Kingsley  suspects  me  of  being  jealous.  Such  an  idea  was  very 
mortifying.  This  is  another  weakness  of  the  suspicious  nature. 
It  loathes  above  all  things  to  be  suspected  of  jealousy.  I  hur- 
ried home,  vexed  with  my  want  of  coolness — doubly  vexed  at 
the  belief  that  other  eyes  than  my  own  were  witnesses  of  the 
attentions  of  Edgerton  to  my  wife. 

I  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  our  cottage.  He  was  there  as 
usual.  Mrs.  Porterfield  was  not  present.  The  candle  waa 
burning  dimly.  He  sat  upon  the  sofa.  Julia  was  seated  upon 


S££  CONFESSION,   OR  THE   BLIND   HEART. 

:  chaii  at  a  little  distrnce.  Her  features  wore  an  expression  of 
3xc  ceding-  gravity.  Jlis  were  pale  and  sad,  but  his  eyes  burnt 
*.i'.h  an  eager  inter  sity  that  betrayed  the  passionate  feeling  in 
\is  heart  Thuo  they  sat  —  she  looking  partly  upon  the  floor 
—he  looking  at  hsr.  I  observed  them  for  more  than  ten  min- 
.iteS;  and  in  all  that  time  I  do  not  believe  they  exchanged  two 


'*  Surely,"  I  thought,  "  this  must  be  a  singularly  sufficing  pas- 
sion Avhich  can  enjoy  itself  in  this  manner  without  the  help  of 
language." 

Of  course,  this  reflection  increased  the  strength  of  my  suspi- 
cions. I  became  impatient,  and  entered  the  cottage.  The  eyes 
of  Julia  seemed  to  brighten  at  my  appearance,  but  they  were 
also  full  of  sadness.  Edgerton  soon  after  rose  and  took  his  de- 
parture. I  believe,  if  I  had  stayed  away  till  midnight,  he  would 
have  lingered  until  that  time  ;  but  I  also  believe  that  if  I  had 
returned  two  hours  before,  he  would  have  gone  as  soon.  His 
passion  for  the  wife  seemed  to  produce  an  antipathy  to  the  hus- 
band, quite  as  naturally  as  that  which  grew  up  in  my  bosom  in 
regard  to  him.  When  he  was  gone,  my  wife  approached  mcr 
almost  vehemently  exclaiming  — 

"  Why,  why  do  you  leave  me  thus,  Clifford  ?  Surely  you 
can  not  love  me." 

"  Indeed  I  do  ;  but  I  was  with  Kingsley.  I  had  business, 
and  did  not  suppose  you  would  miss  me." 

"  Why  suppose  otherwise,  Edward  ?  I  do  miss  you.  I  beg 
that  you  will  not  leave  me  thus  again." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  are  singularly  earnest,  Julia. 
What  has  happened?  What  has  offended  you?  Was  not 
Edgerton  with  you  all  the  evening  ?" 

My  questions,  coupled  with  my  manner,  which  had  been 
somewhat  excited,  seemed  to  alarm  her.  She  replied  hur- 
riedly :  — 

"  Nothing  has  happened  !  nothing  has  offended  me  !  But  I 
feel  that  you  should  not  leave  me  thus.  It  does  not  look  welL 
It  looks  as  if  you  did  not  love  me." 

"  Ah  !  but  when  you  know  that  I  do  !" 

"  I  do  not  know  it.  Oh,  show  me  that  you  do,  Edward. 
Stay  with  me  as  you  did  at  first  —  when  we  first  came  here  — 


CROSS  PURPOSES.  325 

when   we   were  first  married.     Then  we   were  so — so  hap- 
Py!" 

"  You  would  not  say  that  you  are  not  happy  now  1" 

"lam  not!  I  do  not  see  you  as  I  wish — when  I  wish! 
You  leave  me  so  often — leave  me  to  strangers,  and  seem  so  in- 
different. Oh  !  Edward,  do  not  let  me  think  that  you  care  for 
me  no  longer." 

"  Strangers !  Why,  how  you  talk  !  —  Good  old  Mrs.  Porter- 
field  seems  to  me  like  my  own  grandmother,  and  Edgerton  has 
been  my  friend " 

Did  I  really  hear  her  say  the  single  word, 

"  Friend  !"  and  with  such  an  accent !  The  sound  was  a  very 
slight  one — it  may  have  been  my  fancy  only ; — and  she  turned 
away  a  moment  after.  What  could  it  mean?  I  was  bew1"'- 
dered.  I  followed  her  to  the  chamber.  I  endeavored  to  reneiv 
the  subject  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to  offend  her  suspicions, 
but  she  seemed  to  have  taken  the  alarm.  She  answered  me  i& 
monosyllables  only,  and  without  satisfying  the  curiosity  whicii 
that  single  word,  doubtfully  uttered,  had  so  singularly  awake^jri, 

"Only  love  me — love  me,  Edward,  and  keep  with  me,  asii 
I  will  not  complain.  But  if  you  leave  ma  — if  70^.  no§i53i  ma 
—  I  am  desolate!" 


CONFESSION.  OB  THE  BLIND  HEART 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

ACCIDENT   AND    MORE   AGONIES. 

THEAK  was  something  very  unaccountable  in  all  this.  I  say 
unaccountable,  with  the  distinct  understanding  that  it  was  unac- 
countable only  to  that  obtuse  condition  of  mind  which  is  pro- 
duced by  the  demon  of  the  blind  heart.  My  difficulties  of  judg- 
ing1 were  only  temporary,  however.  The  sinister  spirit  made 
his  whisper  conclusive  in  the  end. 

"  This  vehemence,"  it  suggested,  "  which  is  so  unwonted  with 
her,  is  evidently  unnatural.  It  is  affected  for  an  object.  What 
is  that  object  ?  It  is  the  ordinary  one  with  persons  in  the  wrong, 
who  always  affect  one  extreme  of  feeling  when  they  would  con- 
ceal another.  She  fears  that  you  will  suspect  that  she  is  very 
well  satisfied  in  your  absence ;  accordingly  she  strives  to  con- 
vince you  that  she  was  never  so  dissatisfied.  Of  course  you 
can  not"  believe  that  a  man  so  well  endowed  as  Edgerton,  so 
graceful,  having  such  fine  tastes  and  accomplishments,  can  prove 
other  than  an  agreeable  companion !  What  then  should  be 
your  belief?" 

,  There  was  a  devilish  ingenuity  in  this  sort  of  perversion.  It 
lad  its  effect.  I  believed  it;  and  believing  it,  revolted,  with  a 
feeling1  of  hate  and  horror,  at  the  supposed  loathsome  hypocrisy 
of  that  fond  embrace,  and  those  earnest  pleadings,  which,  in  the 
moment  of  their  first  display,  had  seemed  so  precious  to  my  soul. 
In  the  morning,  when  I  was  setting  forth  from  home,  she  put 
her  arm  on  my  shoulder  :— - 

•'  Come  home  soon,  Edward,  and  let  us  go  together  on  the 
hill.  Lot  nobody  know.  Suroly  we  shall  be  company  enough 


ACCIDENT   AND   MOEE  AGONIES.  82J 

for  each  other.  I  will  sketch  you  a  view  of  the  river  while 
you  read  Wordsworth  to  me." 

"Now,"  whispered  my  demon  in  my  ears,  "that  is  ingenious. 
Let  nobody  know ;  as  if.  having  a  friend  in  the  neighborhood— 
on  a  visit  —  he  sick  and  in  bad  spirits — you  should  propose  to 
yourself  a  pleasure  trip  of  any  kind  without  inviting  him  to  par- 
take of  it  ?  She  knows  that  to  be  out  of  the  question,  and  that 
you  must  ask  Edgerton  if  you  resolve  to  go  yourself." 

Such  was  the  artful  suggestion  of  my  familiar.     My  resolve 

—  still  recognising  the  cruel  policy  by  which  I  had  been  so  long 
governed — was  instantly  taken.     This  was  to  invite  Edgerton 
and  Kingsley  both. 

"  I  will  give  them  every  opportunity.  While  Kingsley  and 
myself  ramble  together,  well  leave  this  devoted  pair  to  their  own 
cogitations,  taking  care,  however,  to  see  what  comes  of  them." 

I  promised  Julia  to  be  home  in  season,  but  said  nothing  of 
my  intention  to  ask  the  gentlemen.  She  thanked  me  with  a 
look  and  smile,  which,  had  I  not  seen  all  things  through  eyes 
of  the  most  jaundiced  green,  would  have  seemed  to  me  that  of 
an  angel,  expressive  only  of  the  truest  love. 

"Ah!  could  I  but  believe!"  was  the  bitter  self-murmur  of 
niy  soul,  as  I  left  the  threshold. 

On  my  way  through  the  town  I  stopped  at  the  postoffice  to 
get  letters,  and  received  one  from  Mrs.  Delaney — late  Clifford 
— my  wife's  exemplary  mother,  addressed  to  Julia.  I  then 
proceeded  to  Edgerton's  lodgings.  He  was  not  yet  up,  and  I 
saw  him  in  his  chamber.  His  flute  lay  upon  the  toilet.  Seeing 
it,  I  recalled,  with  all  its  original  vexing  bitterness,  the  scene 
which  took  place  the  night  previous  to  my  departure  from  my 
late  home.  And  when  I  looked  on  Edgerton — saw  with  what 
effort  he  spoke,  and  how  timidly  he  expressed  himself — how 
reluctant  were  his  eyes  to  meet  the  gaze  of  mine — his  guilt 
seemed  equally  fresh  and  unequivocal.  I  marked  him  out,  in- 
voluntarily, as  my  victim.  I  felt  assured,  even  while  convey- 
ing to  him  the  complimentary  invitation  which  I  bore,  that  my 
hand  was  commissioned  to  do  the  work  of  death  upon  his  limbs. 
Strange  and  fascinating  conviction  !  But  I  did  not  contemplate 
this  necessity  with  any  pleasure.  No !  I  would  have  prayed 

—  I  did  pray — that  the  task  might  be  spared  me.    If  I  thought 


328  CONFESSION,   OK  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

of  it  at  all,  it  was  as  the  agent  of  a  necessity  which  I  could  not 
countervail.  The  fates  had  me  in  their  keeping.  I  was  the 
blind  instrument  obeying  the  inflexible  will,  against  which 

"  Reluctant  nature  strives  in  vain." 

I  felt  then,  most  truly,  though  I  deceived  myself,  that  I  had  no 
power,  though  every  disposition,  to  save  and  to  spare.  I  con- 
veyed my  invitation  as  a  message  from  my  wife. 

"  Edgerton,  my  wife  has  planned  a  little  ramble  for  this  after- 
noon. She  wishes  to  show  you  some  of  the  beauties  of  land- 
scape in  our  new  abode.  She  commissions  me  to  ask  you  to 
join  us." 

"  Ah  !  did  she  ?"  he  demanded  eagerly,  with  a  slight  empha- 
sis on  the  last  word. 

"  Ay,  did  she  !     Will  you  come  1" 

"  Certainly  —  with  pleasure  !" 

He  need  not  have  said  so  much.  The  pleasure  spoke  in  his 
bright  eyes  —  in  the  tremulous  hurry  of  his  utterance.  I  turned 
away  from  him,  lest  I  should  betray  the  angry  feeling  which 
disturbed  me.  He  did  not  seek  to  arrest  my  departure.  He 
had  few  words.  It  was  sufficiently  evident  that  he  shrunk  from 
my  glance  and  trembled  in  my  presence.  How  far  otherwise, 
in  the  days  of  our  mutual  innocence — in  our  days  of  boyhood 
— when  his  face  seemed  clear  like  that  of  a  pure,  perfect  star, 
shining  out  in  the  blue  serene  of  night,  unconscious  of  a  cloud. 

Kingsley  was  already  at  my  office  when  I  reached  it,  and 
soon  after  came  Mr.  Wharton,  followed  by  two  of  our  opponents. 
We  were  engaged  with  them  the  better  part  of  the  morning. 
When  the  business  hours  were  consumed,  our  transactions  re- 
mained unfinished,  and  another  meeting  was  appointed  for  the 
ensuing  day.  I  invited  Wharton  as  well  as  Kingsley  to  join 
us  in  our  afternoon  rambles,  which  they  both  promised  to  do. 
I  went  home  something  sooner  to  make  preparations,  and  only 
recollected,  on  seeing  Julia,  that  I  had  thrown  the  letter  from 
her  mother,  with  other  papers,  into  my  desk.  When  I  told  her 
of  the  letter,  her  countenance  changed  to  a  death-like  paleness 
which  instantly  attracted  my  notice. 

"What  is  the  matter— are  you  sick,  Julia?" 

"  No  !  nothing.     But  the  letter — where  is  it  ?" 


ACCIDENT  AND   MORE   AGONIES.  329 

"  I  threw  it  on  my  table,  or  in  my  desk,  with  other  papers, 
to  have  them  out  of  the  way ;  and  hurrying  home  sooner  than 
usual,  forgot  to  bring  it  with  me.  I  suppose  there's  nothing  in 
it  of  any  importance  ?" 

"  No,  nothing,  I  suppose,"  she  answered  faintly. 

I  told  her  what  I  had  done  with  respect  to  our  guests. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  answered,  "  that  you  have  done  so. 
I  do  not  feel  like  company,  and  wished  to  have  you  all  to  my- 
self." 

"  Oh,  selfish ;  but  of  this  I  will  believe  moderately !  As  for 
company,  with  the  exception  of  Wharton,  they  are  old  friends ; 
and  it  would  not  do  to  take  a  pleasure  ramble,  with  poor  Edger- 
ton  here,  and  not  make  him  a  party." 

There  was  an  earnest  intensity  of  gaze,  almost  amounting  to 
a  painful  stare,  in  Julia's  eyes,  as  I  said  these  words.  She  re- 
ally seemed  distressed. 

"  But  really,  Edward,  our  pleasure  ramble  is  not  such  a  one 
as  would  make  it  a  duty  to  invite  your  friends.  How  difficult 
it  seems  for  you  to  understand  me.  Could  not  we  two  stroll  a 
piece  into  the  woods  without  having  witnesses  ?" 

"  Why,  is  that  all  1     Why  then  should  you  have  made  a  for 
mal  appointment  for  such  a  purpose  ?     Could  we  not  have  gone 
as  before  —  without  premeditation?" 

The  question  puzzled  her.  She  looked  anxious.  Had  she 
answered  with  sincerity  —  with  truth  —  and  could  I  have  be- 
lieved her  to  have  been  sincere,  how  easy  would  it  have  been 
to  have  settled  our  difficulties.  Had  she  said  —  "I  really  wish 
to  avoid  Mr.  Edgerton,  whose  presence  annoys  me  —  who  will 
be  sure  to  come — when  you  are  sure  to  be  gone — and  whom  I 
have  particular  reasons  to  wish  not  to  meet — not  to  see." 

This,  which  might  be  the  truth,  she  did  not  dare  to  speak. 
She  had  her  reasons  for  her  apprehension.  This,  which  was 
reasonable  enough,  I  could  not  conjecture ;  for  the  demon  of  the 
blind  heart  was  too  busy  in  suggesting  other  conjectures.  It 
was  evident  enough  that  she  had  secret  motives  for  her  course, 
which  she  did  not  venture  to  reveal  to  me ;  and  nothing  could 
be  more  natural,  in  the  diseased  state  of  my  mind,  than  that  1 
should  give  the  worst  colorings  to  these  motives  in  the  conjee- 


330  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

tures  which  I  made  upon  them.    We  were  destined  to  play  at 
cross-purposes  much  longer,  and  with  more  serious  issues. 

Our  friends  came,  and  we  set  forth  in  the  pleasant  part  of 
the  afternoon.  We  ascended  our  hill,  and  resting  awhile  upon 
the  summit,  surveyed  the  prospect  from  that  position.  Then  I 
conducted  the  party  through  some  of  our  woodland  walks,  which 
Julia  and  myself  had  explored  together.  But  I  soon  gave  up 
the  part  of  cicerone  to  Wharton,  who  was  to  the  "  manor  born." 
He  was  a  native  of  the  neighborhood,  boasted  that  he  knew 
every  "  bosky  dell  of  this  wild  wood"  and  certainly  conducted 
us  to  glimpses  of  prettiest  heights,  and  groves,  and  far  vistas, 
where  the  light  seemed  to  glide  before  us  in  an  embodied  gray 
form,  that  stole  away,  and  peeped  backward  upon  us  from  long 
allies  of  the  darkest  and  most  solemn-sighted  pines. 

'But  there  is  a  finer  spot  just  below  us,"  he  said — "  a  creek 
that  is  like  no  other  that  I  have  ever  met  with  in  the  neighbor* 
hood.  It  is  formed  by  the  Alabama — is  as  deep  in  some  places, 
and  so  narrow,  at  times,  that  a  spry  lad  can  easily  leap  across 
it." 

"  Is  it  far  ?" 

"No  —  a  mile  only." 

"  But  your  wife  may  be  fatigued,  Clifford  V  was  the  sngges 
tion  of  Kingsley.  She  certainly  looked  so ;  but  I  answered  for 
her,  and  insisted  otherwise.  I  met  her  glance  as  I  spoke,  but, 
though  she  looked  dissatisfaction,  her  lips  expressed  none.  I 
could  easily  conjecture  that  she  felt  none.  She  was  walking 
with  Edgerton — and  while  all  eyes  watched  the  scenery,  he 
watched  her  alone.  I  hurried  forward  with  Kingsley,  but  he 
immediately  fell  behind,  loitered  on  very  slowly,  and  left  Whar- 
ton and  myself  to  proceed  together.  I  could  comprehend  the 
meaning  of  this.  My  demon  made  his  suggestion. 

"  Kingsley  suspects  them — he  sees  what  you  are  unwilling 
to  see — he  is  not  so  willing  to  leave  them  together." 

We  reached  the  stream,  and  wandered  along  its  banks.  It 
had  some  unusual  characteristics.  It  was  sometimes  a  creek, 
deep  and  narrow,  but  clear ;  a  few  steps  farther  and  it  became 
what,  in  the  speech  of  the  country,  is  called  a  branch ;  shallow, 
purling  soft  over  a  sand-bed,  limpid  yellow,  and  with  a  playful 
prattle  that  put  one  in  mind  of  the  songs  of  thoughtless  chil- 


ACCIDENT  AND  MORE  AGONIES.  331 

dren,  humming  idly  as  they  go.  The  shrubbery  along  ila  w-l^-se 
seemed  to  follow  its  changes.  Where  the  bluffs  were  higls,  L--.; 
foliage  was  dense  and  the  trees  large.  The  places  where  its 
waters  shallowed,  were  only  dotted  with  shrub  trees  and  wila 
vines,  which  sometimes  clambered  across  the  stream  and  wedded 
the  opposing  branches,  in  bonds  as  hard  to  break  as  those  of 
matrimony.  The  waters  were  sinuous,  and  therefore  slow. 
They  seemed  only  to  glide  along,  like  some  glittering  serpent, 
who  trails  at  leisure  his  silvery  garments  through  the  woods, 
quietly  and  slow,  as  if  he  had  no  sort  of  apprehension. 

When  we  had  reached  a  higher  spot  of  bluff  than  the  rest, 
Wharton,  who  was  an  active  rather  than  an  athletic  man,  chal- 
lenged me  to  follow  him.  He  made  the  leap  having  little  space 
to  spare.  I  had  not  done  such  a  thing  for  some  years.  But  my 
boyhood  had  been  one  of  daring.  The  school  in  which  I  had 
grown  up  had  given  me  bodily  hardihood  and  elasticity ;  at  all 
events  I  could  not  brook  defiance  in  such  a  matter,  and,  with 
moderate  effort,  succeeded  in  making  a  longer  stride.  I  looked 
back  at  this  moment  and  saw  Julia,  still  closely  attended  by 
Edgerton,  just  about  emerging  into  view  from  a  thick  copse  that 
skirted  the  foot  of  a  small  hill  over  which  our  course  had  brought 
us.  I  could  not  distinguish  their  features.  They  were,  however, 
close  together.  Kingsley  was  on  their  right,  a  little  in  advance 
of  them,  but  still  walking  slowly.  I  pointed  my  finger  toward 
a  shallow  and  narrow  part  of  the  stream  as  that  which  they 
would  find  it  most  easy  to  cross.  A  tree  had  been  felled  at  the 
designated  point,  and  just  below  it,  in  consequence  of  the 
obstructions  which  its  limbs  presented  to  the  easy  passage  of 
the  water,  several  sand  bars  had  been  made,  by  which,  stepping 
from  one  to  the  other,  one  might  cross  dryshod  even  without 
the  aid  of  the  tree.  Kingsley  repeated  my  signal  to  those  be- 
hind him,  and  led  the  way.  I  went  on  with  Wharton,  without 
again  looking  behind  me. 

But  few  minutes  had  elapsed  after  this,  when  I  heard  Julia 
scream  in  sudden  terror.  I  looked  round,  but  the  foliage  had 
thickened  behind  me,  and  I  could  no  longer  see  the  parties.  I 
bounded  backward,  with  no  enviable  feelings.  My  apprehen- 
sions for  my  wife's  safety  made  me  forgetful  of  my  suspiciona 
I  reached  the  spot  in  time  to  discover  the  cause  of  her  alarm. 


332  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND    HEART. 

She  was  in  tlie  nrdst  o:  the  stream,  standing  upon  one  of  the 
sandflats,  steadying  herself  with  difficulty,  while  she  supported 
the  *vhole  form  of  William  Edgerton,  who  lay,  seemingly  life- 
loss,  and  half  huried  in  one  of  the  sluices  of  water  which  ran 
between  the  sandrifts.  I  had  just  time  to  see  this,  and  to  feel 
all  the  pangs  of  my  jealousy  renewed,  when  Kingsley  rushed 
into  the  water  to  his  rescue.  He  lifted  him  out  to  the  hanks  as 
if  he  had  been  an  infant,  and  laid  him  on  the  shore.  I  went  to 
the  relief  of  Julia,  who,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  fainted  in  my 
arms  the  moment  she  felt  herself  in  safety. 

The  whole  affair  was  at  that  time  unaccountable  to  rne.  It 
necessarily  served  to  increase  my  pangs.  Had  I  not  seen  her 
with  my  own  eyes  tenderly  supporting  the  fainting  frame  of  the 
man  whom  I  believed  to  be  my  rival  —  whom  I  believed  she 
loved  ?  Had  I  not  heard  her  scream  of  terror  announcing  her 
interest  in  his  fate  —  her  apprehensions  for  his  safety?  His 
danger  had  made  her  forgetful  of  her  caution — such  was  the 
assurance  of  my  demon  —  and  in  the  fullne  s  of  her  heart  her 
voice  found  utterance.  Besides,  how  was  I  to  know  what  endear- 
ments—  what  fond  pressure  of  palms — had  been  passing  be- 
tween them,  making  them  heedless  of  their  course,  and  con- 
sequently, making  them  liable  to  the  accident  which  had  oc- 
curred. For,  it  must  be  remembered,  that  the  general  impression 
was  that  Edgerton's  foot  had  slipped,  and,  falling  into  the  stream 
while  endeavoring  to  assist  Julia,  he  had  nearly  pulled  her  in 
after  him.  His  fainting  afterward  we  ascribed  to  the  same 
nervous  weakness  which  had  induced  that  of  Julia.  On  this 
head,  however,  Kingsley  was  better  informed.  He  told  me,  in 
a  subsequent  conversation,  that  he  had  narrowly  observed  the 
parties — that,  until  the  moment  before  he  fell,  the  hands  of  the 
two  had  not  met — that  then,  Edgerton  offered  his  to  assist  my 
wife  over  the  stream,  and  scarcely  had  their  fingers  touched, 
when  Edgerton  sank  down,  like  a  stone,  seemingly  lifeless,  and 
falling  into  the  water  only  after  he  had  become  insensible. 

All  was  confusion.  Mine,  however,  was  not  confusion.  It 
was  commotion  —  commotion  which  I  yet  suppressed — a  vol- 
cano smothered,  but  smothered  only  for  a  time,  and  ready  to 
break  forth  with  superior  fury  in  consequence  of  the  restraint 
put  upon  it.  This  one  event,  with  the  impressive  spectacle  of 


ACCIDENT  AND  MORE  AGONIES.  383 

the  parties  in  such  close  juxtaposition,  seemed  almost  to  render 
every  previous  suspicion  conclusive. 

Julia  was  soon  recovered  ;  but  the  swoon  of  Edgerton  was  of 
much  longer  duration.  We  sprinkled  him  with  water,  subjected 
him  to  fanning  and  friction,  and  at  length  aroused  him.  His 
mind  seemed  to  wander  at  his  first  consciousness — he  murmur- 
ed incoherently.  One  or  two  broken  sentences,  however,  which 
he  spoke,  were  not  without  significance  in  my  ears. 

"  Closer  !  closer !  leave  me  not  now — not  yet." 

I  bent  over  him  to  catch  the  words.  Kingsley,  as  if  he  fear- 
ed the  utterance  of  anything  more,  pushed  me  away,  and  addres- 
sing Edgerton  sternly,  asked  him  if  he  felt  pain. 

"  What  hurts  you,  Mr.  Edgerton  ?     Where  is  your  pain  ?" 

The  harsh  and  very  loud  tones  which  he  employed,  had  the 
effect  which  I  have  no  doubt  he  intended.  The  other  came  to 
complete  consciousness  in  a  moment. 

"  Pain  !"  said  he—"  no  !    I  feel  no  pain.    I  feel  feeble  only." 

And  he  strove  to  rise  from  the  ground  as  he  spoke. 

"Do  not  attempt  it,"  said  Kingsley  —  "you  are  not  able. 
Wharton,  my  good  fellow,  will  you  run  back  to  town,  and  bring 
a  carriage  ?" 

"  It  will  not  need,"  said  Edgerton,  striving  again  to  rise,  and 
staggering  up  with  difficulty. 

"  It  will  need.  You  must  not  overtask  yourself.  The  walk 
is  a  long  one  before  us." 

Meantime,  Wharton  was  already  on  his  way.  It  was  a  tedious 
interval  which  followed,  before  his  return  with  the  carnage, 
which  found  considerable  difficulty  m  picking  a  track  through 
t!ue  woods.  Julia,  after  recovery,  had  wandered  off  abont  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  party.  She  betrayed  no  concern — ^o 
uneasiness — made  no  inquiries  after  Edgerton,  of  whose  condi- 
tion she  knew  nothing — and,  by  this  very  course,  convinced  me 
that  she  was  conscious  of  too  deep  an  interest  in  his  fate  to 
trust  her  lips  in  referring  to  it.  All  that  she  said  to  me  was, 
that  "  she  had  been  so  terrified  on  seeing  him  fall,  that  she  did 
not  even  know  that  she  had  screamed." 

"  Natural  enough  !"  said  my  demon.  "  Had  she  been  able  to 
have  controlled  her  utterance,  she  would  have  taken  precious 


334  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

good  care  to  have  maintained  tha  silence  of  the  grave.  Bat  her 
feelings  were  too  strong  for  her  policy." 

And  I  took  this  reasoning  for  gospel. 

The  carriage  came.  Edgerton  was  put  into  it,  but  Julia  posi- 
tively refused  to  ride.  She  insisted  that  she  was  perfectly  equal 
to  the  walk  and  walk  she  would.  I  was  pleased  with  this  de- 
termination, but  not  willing  to  appear  pleased.  I  expostulated 
with  her  even  angrily,  but  found  her  incorrigible.  Chagrin  and 
disappointment  were  obvious  enough  on  the  face  of  William 
Edgerton 

I  took  my  seat  beside  him,  and  left  Kingsley  and  Wharton  to 
escort  my  wife  home.  We  had  scarcely  got  in  motion  before  a 
rash  determination  seized  my  mind. 

"  You  must  go  home  with  me,  Edgerton.  It  will  not  do,  while 
you  are  in  this  feeble  state,  to  remain  at  a  public  tavern." 

He  said  something  very  faintly  about  crowding  and  incon- 
veniencing us. 

"  Pshaw — room  enough  —  and  Julia  can  be  your  nurse." 

His  eyes  closed,  he  sunk  back  in  the  carriage,  and  a  deep 
sigh  escaped  him.  I  fancied  that  he  had  a  second  time  fainted  ; 
but  I  soon  discovered  that  his  faiutness  was  simply  the  sudden 
sense  of  an  overcoming  pleasure.  I  knit  my  teeth  spasmodical- 
ly together ;  I  cursed  him  in  the  bitterness  of  my  heart,  but 
said  nothing.  It  was  a  feeling  of  desperation  that  had  prompt- 
ed the  rash  resolution  which  I  had  taken. 

"  At  least,"  I  muttered  to  myself,  "  it  will  bring  these  dam- 
ning doubts  to  a  final  trial.  If  they  have  been  fools  heretofore, 
opportunity  will  serve  to  madden  them.  We  shall  see — ws 
shall  know  all  very  soon; — and  then! — " 

Ay,  then ! 


THE   DAMNING   LETTER.  835 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

THE    DAMNING    LETTER. 

MR  3.  PORTERFIELD,  good  old  lady,  half  blind,  half  deaf,  in- 
firm and  gouty,  but  very  good  natured,  easily  complied  with  my 
request  to  accommodate  my  friend.  My  friend  ! — She  soon  put 
one  of  her  bed-rooms  in  order,  and  Edgerton  was  in  quiet 
possession  of  it  sometime  before  the  pedestrians  came  home. 
When  my  wife  was  told  of  what  I  had  done,  she  was  perfectly 
aghast.  Her  air  of  chagrin  was  well  put  on  and  excellently 
worn.  But  she  said  nothing.  Kingsley  wore  a  face  of  unusual 
gravity. 

"  You  are  either  the  most  wilful  or  the  most  indifferent  hus- 
band in  the  world,"  was  his  whispered  remark  to  me  as  he  bade 
me  good  night,  refusing  to  remain  for  supper. 

I  said  something  to  my  wife  about  tending  Edgerton — seeing 
to  his  wants — nursing  him  if  he  remained  unwell,  and  so  forth 
She  looked  at  me  with  a  face  of  intense  sadness,  but  made 
no  reply. 

"  She  is  too  happy  for  speech,"  said  my  demon ;  "  and  such 
faces  are  easily  made  for  such  an  occasion." 

I  went  in  to  Edgerton  after  a  brief  space  ;  I  found  him  feeble, 
complaining  of  chill.  His  hands  felt  feverish.  I  advised  quiet 
and  sent  off  for  a  physician.  I  sat  with  him  until  the  physician 
came,  but  I  observed  that  my  presence  seemed  irksome  to  him. 
He  answered  me  in  monosyllables  only ;  his  eyes,  meanwhile, 
being  averted,  his  countenance  that  of  one  excessively  weary 
and  impatient  for  release.  The  physician  prescribed  and  left 
him,  as  I  did  myself.  I  thought  he  needed  repose  and  desired  to 
be  alone.  To  my  great  surprise  he  followed  me  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  into  the  supper -room,  where  he  stubbornly  sat  out 


336  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND   HEART, 

the  evening.  He  refused  to  take  tlie  physic  prescribed  for  him 
and  really  did  not  now  appear  to  need  it.  His  eyes  were  light- 
ed up  with  unusual  animation,  his  cheeks  had  an  improved 
color,  and  without  engaging  very  actively  in  the  conversation, 
what  he  said  was  said  with  a  degree  of  spirit  quite  uncommon 
with  him  during  the  latter  days  of  our  intimacy. 

Mr.  Wharton  spent  the  evening  with  us,  and  the  hall  of  talk 
was  chiefly  sustained  by  him  and  myself.  My  wife  said  little, 
nothing  save  when  spoken  to,  and  wore  a  countenance  of  great- 
er gravity  than  ever.  It  seemed  that  Edgerton  made  some 
effort  to  avoid  any  particularity  in  his  manner,  yet  seldom  did  I 
turn  my  eyes  without  detecting  his  in  keen  examination  of  my 
wife's  countenance.  At  such  times,  his  glance  usually  fell  to  the 
ground,  but  toward  the  close  of  evening,  he  almost  seemed  to 
despise  observation,  or — which  was  more  probable  —  was  not 
conscious  of  it  —  for  his  gaze  became  fixed  with  a  religious 
earnestness,  which  no  look  of  mine  could  possibly  divert  or  un- 
fix. He  solicited  my  wife  to  play  on  the  guitar,  but  she  de- 
clined, until  requested  by  Mrs.  Porterfield,  when  she  took  up 
the  instrument  passively,  and  sung  to  it  one  of  those  ordinary 
negro-songs  which  are  now  so  shockingly  popular.  I  was  sur- 
prised at  this,  for  I  well  knew  that  she  heartily  detested  the 
taste  and  spirit  in  which  such  things  were  conceived.  Under 
the  tuition  of  my  demon,  I  immediately  assumed  this  to  be 
another  proof  of  the  decline  of  her  delicacy.  And  yet,  though 
I  did  not  think  of  this  at  the  time,  she  might  have  employed 
the  coarse  effusion  simply  as  an  antidote  against  the  predomi- 
nance of  a  morbid  sentimentalism.  There  is  a  moment  in  the 
history  of  the  heart's  suffering,  when  the  smallest  utterance  of 
the  lips,  or  movement  of  the  form,  or  expression  of  the  eye,  is 
prompted  by  some  prevailing  policy — some  motive  which  the 
excited  sensibilities  deem  of  importance  to  their  desires. 

She  retired  soon.  Her  departure  was  followed  by  that  of  Ed- 
gerton first,  and  next  of  Wharton.  Mrs.  Porterfield  had  already 
gone.  I  was  alone  at  the  entrance  of  our  cottage.  Not  alone ! 
My  demon  was  with  me  —  suggestive  of  his  pangs  as  ever — full 
of  subtlety,  and  filling  me  with  the  darkest  imaginings.  The 
destroyer  of  my  peace  was  in  my  dwelling.  My  wife  may  or 
may  not  be  innocent.  Happy  for  her  if  she  is,  but  how  can  that 


THE  DAMNING  LETTER.  337 

be  known  ?  It  mattered  little  to  me  in  the  excited  mood  whicb 
possessed  me.  Let  any  man  fancy,  as  I  did,  that  one,  partaking 
of  his  hospitality,  lying  in  the  chamber  which  adjoined  his  own, 
yet  meditated  the  last  injury  in  the  power  of  man  to  inflict 
against  the  peace  and  honor  of  his  protector.  Let  him  fancy 
this,  and  then  ask  what  would  be  his  own  feelings — what  his 
course  * 

Still,  there  is  a  sentiment  of  justice  which  is  natural  to  every 
bosom  with  whom  education  has  not  been  utter  perversion.  I 
Deiieved  much  against  Edgerton ;  I  suspected  my  wife ;  I  had 
seen  much  to  offend  my  affections ;  much  to  alarm  my  fears ; 
yet  I  knew  nothing  which  was  conclusive.  That  last  event,  the 
occurrence  of  the  afternoon,  seemed  to  prove  not  that  the  two 
were  guilty,  but  that  my  wife  loved  the  man  who  meditated 
guilt.  This  belief,  doubtful  so  long,  and  against  which  I  had 
really  striven,  seemed  now  to  be  concluded.  I  had  heard  her 
scream ;  I  had  seen  her  tenderly  sustaining  his  form ;  I  had  felt 
her  emotions,  when,  the  danger  being  over,  her  feminine  nature 
gained  the  ascendancy  and  she  fainted  in  my  arms.  I  could  no 
longer  doubt,  that  if  she  was  still  pure  in  mind,  she  was  no  longer 
insensible  to  a  passion  which  must  lessen  that  purity  with 
every  added  moment  of  its  permitted  exercise.  Still,  even  with 
this  conviction,  something  more  was  necessary  to  justify  me  in 
what  I  designed.  There  must  be  no  doubt.  I  must  see.  I 
must  have  sufficient  proof,  for,  as  my  vengeance  shall  be  un- 
sparing, my  provocation  must  be  complete.  That  it  might  be 
so  I  had  brought  Edgerton  into  the  house.  Something  more 
was  necessary.  Time  and  opportunity  must  be  allowed  him. 
This  I  insisted  on,  though,  more  than  once,  as  I  walked  under 
the  dark  whispering  groves  which  girdled  our  cottage,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  light  in  Edgerton's  chamber,  my  demon 
urged  me  to  go  in  and  strangle  him.  I  had  strength  to  resist 
this  suggestion,  but  the  struggle  was  a  long  one. 

I  did  not  soon  retire  to  rest.  When  I  did,  I  still  remained 
sleepless.  But  Julia  slept.  In  her  sleep  she  threw  herself  on 
my  bosom,  and  seemed  to  cling  about  and  clasp  me  as  if  with 
Borne  fear  of  separation.  Had  I  not  fancied  that  this  close  em- 
brace was  meant  for  another  than  myself,  I  had  been  more  in- 
dulgent to  the  occasional  meanings  of  distress  that  escaped  her 

16 


338 

lips.  But,  thinking  as  I  did,  I  forced  her  from  me,  and  in  dclng 
so  she  wakened. 

"  Edward,"  she  exclaimed  on  wakening,  "  is  it  you  V 

"Who  should  it  be?"  I  demanded — all  my  tjusp:  ;ioL.o  re- 
newed by  her  question. 

"  I  am  so  glad.  I  have  had  such  a  dream.  Oh !  Edward, 
I  dreamed  that  you  were  killing  me !" 

"  Ha !  what  could  have  occasioned  such  a  dream  ?" 

My  demon  suggested,  at  this  moment,  that  her  draam  had 
been  occasioned  by  a  consciousness  of  what  her  guilty  fancies 
deserved.  But  she  replied  promptly  : — 

"  Nay,  I  know  not.  It  was  the  strangest  fancy.  I  thought 
that  you  pursued  me  along  the  river — that  my  foot  slipped  and 
I  fell  among  the  bushes,  where  you  caught  me,  and  it  was  juot 
when  you  were  strangling  me  that  I  wakened." 

"  Your  dream  was  occasioned  by  the  affair  of  the  afternoon. 
Was  nobody  present  but  ourselves  ?" 

"Yes — there  was  a  man  at  a  little  distance  beycnd  ne,  and 
he  seemed  to  be  running  from  you  also." 

"  A  man  !  who  was  he  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  exactly — his  back  wr?  turned,  but  it  seemed 
as  if  it  was  Mr.  Edgerton." 

"Ha!  Mr.  Edgerton  !" 

A  deep  silence  followed.  She  had  spoken  her  reply  firmly, 
but  so  slowly  as  to  convince  me  of  the  mental  reluctance  which 
she  felt  in  uttering  this  part  of  the  dream.  When  the  imagina- 
tion is  excited,  how  small  are  the  events  that  confirm  its  ascen- 
dency, and  stimulate  its  progress.  This  dream  seemed  to  me  as 
significant  as  any  of  the  signs  that  informed  the  ancient  augurs, 
It  bore  me  irresistibly  forward  in  the  direction  of  my  previous 
thoughts.  I  began  to  see  the  path  —  dark,  dismal — perhaps 
bloody  —  which  lay  before  me.  I  began  to  feel  the  deed,  al- 
ready in  my  soul,  which  destiny  was  about  to  require  me  to 
perform.  A  crime,  half  meditated,  is  already  half  committed. 
This  is  the  danger  of  brooding  upon  the  precipice  of  evil 
thoughts.  A  moment's  dizziness  —  a  single  plunge — and  all  ia 
over  !  * 

I  doubt  whether  Julia  slept  much  the  remainder  of  the  night, 
I  know  that  I  did  not.  She  had  her  consciousness  as  well  as 


TEE  DAMNING  LETTER.  389 

mine.  That  I  now  know.  The  question — "washer  conscious- 
ness a  guilty  one?"  That  was  the  only  question  which  re- 
mained for  me ! 

Thfl  next  morning  I  saw  Edgerton.  He  looked  quite  as  well 
as  on  the  previous  night,  but  professed  to  feel  otherwise — de- 
clined coming  forth  to  breakfast,  and  begged  me  to  send  the 
physician  to  him  on  my  way  to  the  office.  T  immediately  con- 
jectured that  this  was  mere  practice,  for  he  had  not  taken  the 
medicine  which  had  been  prescribed. 

He  must  keep  sick  to  keep  here"  said  my  demon.     " He 
can  have  no  pretext,  otherwise,  to  stay !" 

When  I  was  about  to  leave  the  house  Julia  followed  me  to 
the  door. 

"  Don't  forget  to  bring  mother's  letter  with  you,"  was  her 
parting  direction.  I  had  not  been  half  an  hour  at  the  office  be- 
fore a  little  servant-girl,  who  tended  in  the  house,  came  to  me 
with  a  message  from  her,  requesting  that  the  letter  might  be 
sent  by  her. 

This  earnestness  struck  me  with  surprise.  I  remembered  the 
expression  in  my  wife's  face  the  day  before  when  I  told  her  the 
letter  had  been  received.  I  now  recalled  to  mind  the  fact,  that, 
on  no  occasion,  had  she  ever  shown  me  any  of  her  mother's,  let- 
ters ;  though  nothing  surely  would  have  seemed  more  natural, 
as  she  knew  how  keen  was  my  anxiety  to  hear  at  all  times  from 
the  old  maternal  city. 

My  suspicions  began  to  warm,  and  I  resolved  upon  another 
act  of  baseness  in  obedience  to  the  counsel  of  my  evil  spirit.  I 
pretended  to  look  awhile  for  the  letter,  but  finally  dismissed  the 
girl,  saying  that  I  had  mislaid  it,  but  would  bring  it  home  with 
me  when  I  came  to  dinner.  The  moment  she  had  gone  I  ex- 
amined this  precious  document.  It  was  sealed  with  one  of  those 
gum  wafers  which  are  stuck  on  the  outside  of  the  envelope.  In 
turning  it  over,  as  if  everything  was  prepared  to  gratify  my 
wish,  I  discovered  that  one  section  of  the  wafer  had  nearly 
parted  from  the  paper.  To  the  upper  section  of  the  fold 
it  adhered  closely.  To  the  lower  it  was  scarcely  attached 
at  all,  and  seemed  never  to  have  been  as  well  fastened  as  the 
upper. 

The  temptation  was  irresistible.     A  very  slight  effort  enabled 


840  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

me  to  complete  the  separation  without  soiling  the  paper  or  frac- 
turing the  seal.  This  was  all  done  within  my  desk,  the  leaf  of 
the  desk  being  raised  and  resting  upon  my  head.  In  this  posi- 
tion I  could  easily  close  the  desk,  in  the  event  of  any  intrusion, 
without  suffering  the  intruder  to  see  in  what  I  had  been  en- 
gaged. Thus  guarded  I  proceeded  to  read  the  precious  epistle, 
which  I  found  very  much  what  I  should  have  expected  from 
such  a  woman.  It  said  a  great  deal  about  her  neighbors  and 
her  neighbors'  dresses ;  and  how  her  dear  Delaney  was  some- 
times "  obstropolous,"  though  in  the  end  a  mighty  good  man ; 
and  much  more  over  which  I  hurried  with  all  the  rapidity  of 
disgust.  But  there  was  matter  that  made  me  linger.  One  or 
two  sentences  thrown  into  the  postscript  contained  a  volume. 
I  read,  with  lifted  hair  and  a  convulsed  bosom,  the  following 
passage : — 

"  Delaney  tells  me  that  Bill  Edgerton  has  gone  to  travel.  He 
says  to  Tennessee.  But  I  know  better.  I  know  he  can't  keep 
from  you,  let  him  try  his  best.  But  be  on  your  guard,  Julia. 
Don't  let  him  get  too  free.  Tour  husband's  a  jealous  man, 
and  if  he  was  once  to  dream  of  the  truth,  he'd  just  as 
leave  shoot  him  as  look  at  him.  I  thought  at  one  time 
he'd  have  guessed  the  truth  before.  So  far  you've  played 
your  cards  nicely,  but  that  was  when  I  was  by  you,  to  tell 
you  how.  I  feel  quite  ticklish  when  I  think  of  you,  and  re- 
member you've  got  nobody  now  to  consult  with.  All  I  can  - 
say  is,  keep  close.  It  would  be  the  most  terrible  thing  if  Clif- 
ford should  find  out  or  even  suspect.  He  wouldn't  spare  either 
of  you.  It's  better  for  a  woman  in  this  country  to  drag  on  and 
be  wretched,  than  to  expose  herself  to  shame,  for  no  one  cares 
for  her  after  that.  Be  sure  and  burn  this  the  moment  you've 
read  it.  I  would  not  have  it  seen  for  the  world.  I  only  write 
it  as  a  matter  of  duty,  for  I  can't  forget  that  I'm  your  mother, 
though  I  must  say,  Julia,  there  were  times  when  you  have  not 
acted  the  part  of  a  daughter." 

Precious,  voluminous  postscript !  Considerate  mother !  "  Be 
on  your  guard,  Julia.  Don't  let  him  get  too  free  !"  Prudent, 
motherly  counsel !  "  You've  played  your  cards  nicely."  Nice 
lady  !  "  I  feel  quite  ticklish  !"  Elegant  sensibilities ! 

Enough !     The  evil  was  done.     Here  was  another  piece  Q 


THE  DAMPING  LETTER. 

damning  testimony,  indirect  but  conclusive,  to  shew  that  I  was 
bedevilled.  I  refolded  the  letter,  but  I  could  not  place  my  lips 
to  the  wafer.  The  very  letter  seemed  to  breathe  of  poison. 
Faugh !  I  put  it  from  me,  went  to  the  basin,  and  wetting  the 
end  of  my  finger,  sufficiently  softened  the  gum  to  make  it  more 
effectually  fasten  the  letter  than  when  I  had  received  it.  This 
done,  I  proceeded  to  the  business  of  the  day  with  what  appetite 
was  left  me. 


S42  CONFEflPTON.   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

VERGE   OF   THE    PRECIPICE. 

I  DO  not  know  how  I  got  through  with  the  business  of  that 
day.  Even  in  my  weakness  I  was  possessed  of  a  singular  de- 
gree of  strength.  I  saw  Kingsley,  Wharton,  and  all  of  the  par- 
ties whom  we  met  the  day  before.  We  came  to  a  final  decision 
on  the  subject  of  Kingsley's  claims ;  I  took  down  the  heads  of 
several  papers  which  were  to  be  drawn  up;  the  terms  of  sale 
and  transfer,  bounds  and  characteristics  of  the  land  to  be  con- 
veyed ;  and  engaged  in  the  discussion  of  the  various  topics  which 
were  involved  in  these  transactions,  with  as  keen  a  sense  of 
business,  I  suspect,  as  any  among  them.  The  habit  of  suppres- 
sing my  feelings  availed  me  sufficiently  under  the  present  cir- 
cumstances. Kingsley  said  nothing  on  the  subject  of  yester- 
day's adventure,  nor  was  I  in  the  mood  to  refer  to  it.  With 
some  effort  I  was  cheerful ;  spoke  freely  of  indifferent  topics, 
and  pleased  myself  with  the  idea  of  my  own  firmness,  while  per- 
suading my  hearers  of  my  good  humor  and  my  legal  ability.  I 
do  not  deny  that  I  paid  for  these  proofs  of  stoicism.  Who  does 
not  1  There  is  no  such  thing  as  suppressing  passions  which  are 
already  in  action — at  least,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  suppres- 
sing them  long.  If  the  summer  tempest  keeps  off  to-day  it  will 
come  to-morrow,  and  its  force  and  volume  is  always  in  due  pro- 
portion to  the  delay  in  its  utterance.  The  solitudes  of  the  for- 
est heard  my  groans  and  agonies  when  man  did  not — and  the 
venom  which  I  kept  from  my  lips,  overflowed  and  poisoned  the 
very  sources  of  life  and  happiness  within  my  heart. 

I  gave  the  letter  to  Julia  without  a  word.     She  did -not  Jook 


VERGE  OF  THE   PRECIPICE.  343 

at  me  while  extending  the  Land  to  receive  it,  and  hurried  to  her 
chamber  without  breaking  the  seal.  I  watched  her  departing 
form  with  a  vague,  painful  emotion  of  inquiry,  such  as  would 
possess  the  bouc:2i  o?  one,  looking  on  a  dear  object,  with  whom 
he  felt  that  a  disruption  was  hourly  threatened  of  every  earthly 
tie.  That  day  she  ate  no  dinner.  Her  brow  was  clouded 
throughout  the  meal.  Edgerton  was  present,  seemingly  as  well 
as  at  his  first  arrival.  I  had  learned  casually  from  Mrs.  Porter- 
field  that  he  h&d  been  in  our  little  parlor  all  the  morning ;  while 
another  remark  from  the  good  old  lady  gave  me  a  new  idea  of 
the  employment  of  my  wife. 

"  This  writing/'  said  she,  addressing  the  latter,  "  does  your 
eyes  no  good.  Indeed  tLey  look  as  if  you  had  been  crying 
over  your  task." 

"  What  writing  1"  I  asked,  looking  at  Julia,  She  blushed, 
but  said  nothing,  and  the  blush  passed  off,  leaving  the  sadness 
more  distinct  than  ever. 

"  Oh,  she  has  been  writing  whole  sheets  for  the  last  two  morn- 
ings. I  v76ut  in  this  morning  to  bring  her  out  to  assist  me  in 
entertaining  Mr.  Edgerton,  who  looked  so  lonesome ;  and  I  do 
assure  you  I  thought  at  first,  from  the  quantity  of  writing,  that 
you  had  given  her  some  of  your  law-papers  to  do.  The  table 
was  covered  with  it." 

"Indeed!"  said  I — "this  must  be  looked  into.  It  will  not 
do  ibr  the  wife  to  take  the  husband's  business  from  him.  It 
looks  mischievous,  Mrs.  Porterfield — there's  something  wrong 
about  it." 

"  Indeed  there  must  be,  Mr.  Clifford,  for  only  see  how  very 
sad  it  makes  her.  I  declare,  she  looks  this  last  few  weeks  like 
a  very  different  woman.  She  does  nothing  now  but  mope. 
When  she  first  came  here  she  seemed  to  me  so  cheerful  and 
happy." 

All  this  was  so  much  additional  wormwood  to  my  bitter.  The 
change  in  Julia,  which  had  even  struck  this  blind  old  lady,  cor- 
responded exactly  with  the  date  of  Edgerton's  arrival.  When 
I  saw  the  earnest  tenderness  in  his  countenance  as  he  watched, 
her,  while  Mrs.  Porterfield  was  speaking,  I  ceased  to  feel  any 
sympathy  for  the  intense  sadness  which  I  yet  could  not  but  see 
in  hers.  I  turned  away,  and  leaving  the  table  soon  after,  weni 


844  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEAEi. 

to  our  chamber,  but  the  traces  of  writing  wsre  no  longer  to  be 
seen.  The  voluminous  manuscripts  had  all  been  carefully  re- 
moved. I  was  about  to  leave  the  chamber  when  Julia  met  me 
at  the  door. 

"  Come  back ;  sit  with  me,"  she  said.  "  "Why  do  you  go  off 
in  such  a  hurry  always  1  Once  it  was  not  so,  Edward." 

"  What !  are  you  for  the  honeymoon  again  ?" 

"  Do  not  smile  so,  and  speak  so  irreverently !"  cha  eaid,  with 
a  reproachful  earnestness  that  certainly  seemed  to  me  very 
strange,  thinking  of  her  as  I  did.  My  evil  spirit  was  silent. 
He  lacked  readiness  to  account  for  it.  But  he  was  not  miadroit, 
and  moved  me  to  change  the  ground. 

"  But  what  long  writing  is  this,  Julia  I" 

"  Ah  !  you  are  curious  ?" 

"Scarcely." 

"  Tell  me  that  you  are  1" 

"  What !  at  the  expense  of  truth  V9 

"  No  !  but  to  gratify  my  desire.  I  hoped  you  were ;  bat,  cu- 
rious or  not,  it  is  for  you." 

"  Let  me  see  it,  then." 

"  Not  yet ;  it  is  not  ready." 

"  What !  shall  there  be  more  of  it  I" 

"  Yes,  a  good  deal." 

"  Indeed !  but  why  take  this  labor  ?  Why  not  tell  me  what 
you  have  to  say  V9 

"  I  wish  I  could,  but  I  can  not.    Tou  do  not  encourage  me." 

"  What  encouragement  do  you  wish  to  speak  to  your  hus- 
band 1" 

"  Oh,  much  !     Stay  with  me,  dear  husband." 

"  That  will  keep  you  from  your  writing." 

"  Ah  !  perhaps  it  will  render  it  unnecessary." 

"  At  all  events  it  will  keep  me  from  mine ;"  and  I  prepared 
to  go.  She  put  her  hand  upon  my  shoulder — looked  into  my 
eyes  pleadingly — hers  were  dewy  wet  —  and  spoke:— 

"Do  not  go — stay  with  me  dear  husband,  do  stay.  Stay 
jonly  for  half  an  hour." 

Why  did  I  not  stay  ?  I  should  ask  that  question  of  myself 
in  vain.  When  the  heart  grows  perverse,  it  acquires  a  taste  for 
wilfulness.  I,  myself,  longed  to  stay ;  could  I  have  been  per  • 


VERGE   OP  THE  PRECIPICE.  345 

Buaded  that  she  certainly  desired  it,  I  should  have  found  my 
sweetest  pleasure  in  remaining.  But  there  was  the  rub  —  that 
douht !  all  that  she  said,  looked,  did,  seemed,  through  the  me- 
dium of  the  blind  heart,  to  be  fraudulent. 

"  She  would  disguise  her  anxiety,  that  you  should  be  gone. 
Leave  her,  and  in  twenty  minutes  she  and  Edgerton  will  be 
together." 

Such  was  the  whisper  of  my  demon.  I  did  leave  her.  I 
went  forth  for  an  hour  into  the  woods — returned  suddenly  and 
found  them  together  !  They  were  playing  chess,  Mrs.  Porter- 
field,  with  all  her  spectacles,  watching  the  game.  I  did  not 
ask,  and  did  not  know,  till  afterward,  that  the  express  solicita- 
tion of  the  old  lady  had  drawn  her  from  her  chamber,  and  placed 
her  at  the  table.  The  conjecture  of  the  evil  spirit  proved  so  far 
correct,  and  this  increased  my  confidence  in  his  whispers.  Alas ! 
liow  readily  do  we  yield  our  faith  to  the  spirit  of  hate !  how 
slow  to  believe  the  pure  and  gentle  assurances  of  love ! 

Three  days  passed  after  this  fashion.  Edgerton  no  longer 
expressed  indisposition,  yet  he  made  no  offer  to  depart.  I  took 
care  that  neither  word  nor  action  should  remind  him  of  his  tres- 
pass. I  gave  the  parties  every  opportunity,  and  exhibited  the 
manner  of  an  indifference  which  was  free  from  all  disquiet — all 
suspicion.  The  sadness,  meanwhile,  increased  upon  the  coun- 
tenance of  Julia.  She  gazed  at  me  in  particular  with  a  look  of 
earnestness  amounting  to  distress.  This  I  ascribed  to  the 
strength  of  her  passions.  There  was  even  at  moments  a  harsh- 
ness in  her  tones  when  addressing  me  now,  which  was  unusual 
to  her.  I  found  some  reason  for  this,  equally  unfavorable  to 
her  fidelity.  After  dinner  I  said  to  Edgerton  : — 

"  You  are  scarcely  strong  enough  for  a  bout  at  the  bottle.  I 
take  wine  with  Kingsley  this  afternoon.  He  has  commissioned 
me  to  ask  you." 

"  I  dare  not  venture,  but  that  should  not  keep  you  away." 

"  It  will  not,"  I  said  indifferently. 

'•  Thank  him  for  me,  if  you  please,  but  tell  him  it  will  not  do 
for  one  so  much  an  invalid  as  myself." 

"  Very  good !"  and  I  left  him,  and  joined  Kingsley.  The 
business  of  this  friend  being  now  in  a  fair  train  for  final  adjust- 
ment, he  was  preparing  for  his  return  to  Texas.  He  had  not 

15* 


346  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

been  at  my  lodgings  since  Edgerton's  arrival  in  M ,  but  we 

had  seen  each  other,  nevertheless,  almost  every  day  at  his  or  at 
my  office.  Our  afternoon  was  rather  merry  than  cheerful. 
Heaven  knows  I  was  in  no  mood  to  be  a  Ion  compagnon,  but  I 
took  sufficient  pains  that  Kingsley  should  not  suspect  I  had  any 
reasons  for  being  otherwise.  I  had  my  jest  —  I  emptied  my 
oottle — I  said  my  good  things,  and  seemed  to  say  them  without 
effort.  Kingsley,  always  cheerful  and  strong-minded,  was  in 
his  best  vein,  and  mingling  wit  and  reflection  happily  together, 
maintained  the  ball  of  conversation  with  equal  ease  and  felicity. 
He  had  the  happy  knack  of  saying  happy  things  quietly — of 
waiting  for,  and  returning  the  ball,  without  running  after  it. 
At  another  time,  I  should  have  been  content  simply  to  have 
provoked  him.  Now,  I  was  quite  too  miserable  not  to  seek  em- 
ployment ;  and  to  disguise  feelings,  which  I  should  have  been 
ashamed  to  expose,  I  contrived  to  take  the  lead  and  almost  grew 
voluble  in  the  frequency  of  my  utterance.  Perhaps,  if  Kingsley 
failed  in  any  respect  as  a  philosopher,  it  was  in  forbearing  to 
look  with  sufficient  keenness  of  observation  into  the  heart  of  his 
neighbor.  He  evidently  did  not  see  into  mine.  He  was  de- 
ceived by  my  manner.  He  credited  all  my  fun  to  good  faith, 
and  gravely  pronounced  me  to  be  a  fortunate  fellow. 

"  How  ?"  I  demanded  with  a  momentary  cessation  of  the  jest. 
His  gravity  and — to  me— the  strange  error  in  such  an  obser- 
vation—  excited  my  curiosity 

"  In  your  freedom  from  jealousy." 

"  Oh  !  that,  eh  1     But  why  should  I  be  jealous  ?" 

"  It  is  not  exactly  why  a  man  should  be  jealous — but  why, 
knowing  what  men  are,  usually,  that  you  are  not.  Nine  men 
in  ten  would  be  so  under  your  circumstances  T* 

"  How,  what  circumstances  ?" 

"With  Edgerton  in  your  house  —  evidently  fond  of  your 
wife,  you  leave  them  utterly  to  themselves.  You  bring  him  into 
your  house  unnecessarily,  and  give  him  every  opportunity.  I 
still  think  you  risk  everything  imprudently.  You  may  pay 
for  it." 

I  felt  a  strange  sickness  at  my  heart.  I  felt  that  the  flame 
was  beginning  to  boil  up  within  me.  The  perilous  turning-point 
of  passion — the  crisis  of  strength  and  endurance — was  at  hand. 


VERGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE.  347 

My  eyes  settled  gloomily  upon  the  table.  I  was  silent  longei 
than  usual.  I  felt  that,  and  1  coked  up.  The  keen  glance  of 
Kingsley  was  upon  me.  It  would  not  do  to  snffer  him  to  read 
my  feelings.  I  replied  with  scms  precipitation : — 

"  I  see,  Kingsley,  you  are  not  cured  of  your  prejudices  against 
Edgerton." 

"  I  am  not — I  have  eeen  nothing  to  cure  me.  But  my  preju- 
dice against  him,  has  nothing  to  do  with,  xny  opinion  of  your 
prudence.  Were  it  any  other  man,  the  case  would  be  the 
same." 

"  Well,  but  I  do  not  tLink  it  so  clear  that  Edgerton  loves  my 
wife  more  than  is  natural  and  proper." 

"Of  the  naturalress  of  his  love  I  say  nothing — perhaps, 
nothing  could  b?  more  natural.  But  that  he  does  love  her,  and 
loves  her  as  no  married  woman  should  be  loved,  by  ancthar  than 
her  husband,  is  cUar  enough." 

"  Suppose,  then,  it  be  as  you  say  !  So  long  as  he  does  noth- 
ing improperly,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said.  There  is  no  evil." 

"  Ah,  but  there  is  evil.     There  is  danger." 

"  How  1  I  do  not  see." 

"  Suppose  your  wife  makes  the  same  discovery  which  other 
persons  have  made  1  Suppose  she  finds  out  that  Edgerton  loves 
her  r 

"Well— what  then?" 

"  She  can  not  remain  uninfluenced  by  it.  It  will  affect  her 
feelings  sensibly  in  some  way.  No  creature  in  the  world  can 
remain  insensible  to  the  attachment  of  another." 

"  Indeed  !  Why,  agreeable  to  that  doctrine,  there  could  be 
no  security  from  principle.  There  could  be  no  virtue  certain — 
nay,  not  eve^i  love." 

"  Do  not  nnetaka  me.  When  I  say  she  would  be  influenced 
—  I  do  not  mean  to  eay  that  she  would  be  so  influenced  as  to 
requite  the  illicit  sentiment.  Far  from  it.  But  she  must  pity 
or  she  must  scorn.  She  may  despise  or  she  may  deplore.  In 
either  case  her  feelings  would  be  aroused,  and  in  either  case 
would  produce  uneasiness  if  not  unhappiness.  I  know,  Clifford, 
that  your  wife  perceives  the  passion  of  Edgerton  —  I  am  confi- 
dent, also,  that  it  has  influenced  her  feelings.  What  may  be 
the  sentiment  produced  by  this  influence  I  do  not  pretend  to 


848  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

say.  I  would  not  insinuate  that  it  is  more  than  would  be  natu- 
ral to  the  breast  of  any  virtuous  woman.  She  may  pity  or  she 
may  scorn  — she  may  despise  or  she  may  deplore.  I  know  not. 
But,  in  either  case,  I  regard  your  bringing  Edgerton  into  the 
house  and  conferring  upon  him  so  many  opportunities,  as  being 
calculated  either  to  make  yourself  or  your  wife  miserable.  In 
either  event  you  have  done  wrong.  Look  to  it — remedy  it  as 
soon  as  you  can," 

My  face  burned  like  fire.  My  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  table. 
I  dared  not  look  upon  my  companion.  When  I  spoke,  I  felt  a 
choking  difficulty  in  my  utterance  which  compelled  me  to  speak 
loud  to  be  understood,  and  which  yet  left  my  speech  thick, 
husky,  and  unnatural. 

"  Say  no  more,  Kingsley.  What  you  have  said  disturbs  me 
Nay,  I  acknowledge,  I  have  been  disturbed  before.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  I  know  more  than  yourself.  Time  will  show.  At  all 
events,  be  sure  of  one  thing.  These  opportunities,  if  what  you 
Bay  be  true,  afford  an  ordeal  through  which  it  is  necessary  that 
the  parties  should  now  go — if  it  be  only  to  afford  the  necessary 
degree  of  relief  to  my  mind.  Enough  has  been  seen  to  excite 
suspicion — enough  has  been  done,  you  yourself  think,  to  awaken 
the  feelings  of  my  wife.  Those  feelings  must  now  be  tried. 
Opportunity  will  do  this.  She  must  go  through  the  trial.  I 
am  not  blind  as  you  suppose.  Nay,  I  am  watchful,  and  I  tell 
you,  Kingsley,  that  the  time  approaches  when  all  my  doubts 
must  cease  one  way  or  the  other." 

"But  I  still  think,  Clifford  —  "  he  began. 

"  No  more,  Kingsley.  I  tell  you,  matters  must  go  on.  Ed- 
gerton can  now  only  be  driven  from  my  house  by  my  wife.  If 
she  expels  him,  I  shall  be  too  happy  not  to  forgive  him.  But 
if  she  makes  it  necessary  that  ths  expulsion  shall  be  effected  by 
my  hands,  and  with  violence  —  G-cd  have  mercy  upon  both  of 
them,  for  I  shall  not.  Good  nigLt!" 

"  But  why  will  you  go  ?  Stay  awhile  longer.  Be  not  rash 
—  do  nothing  precipitately,  Clifford." 

I  smiled  bitterly  in  leplying: — 

"  You  need  not  foar  me.  Have  I  not  proved  myself  patient 
— patient  until  you  pronounced  me  cold  and  indifferent1?  Why 
should  you  s-ippose  that,  having  waited  and  forborne  so  long. 


OF  THE  PRECIPICE  349 

I  should  be  guilty  of  rashness  now  ?  No,  Kingsley !  My  wife 
is  very  dear  to  me — how  dear  I  will  not  say;  I  will  be  delib- 
erate for  her  sake — for  my  own.  I  will  be  sure,  very  sure— 
quite  sure;— but,  once  sure!  —  Good  night." 

Kingsley  followed  me  to  the  door.  His  last  injunctions  ex- 
horted me  to  forbearance  and  deliberation.  I  silenced  them  by 
a  significant  repetition  of  the  single  words,  "  Good  night — good 
night !"  and  hurried,  with  every  feeling  of  anxiety  and  jealousy 
awakened,  in  the  direction  of  my  cottage. 


350  CONFESSION^  OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

THE   UNBRIDLED   MADNESS. 

THE  night  did  not  promise  to  be  a  good  one.  The  clouds 
were  scudding  wildly  from  east  to  west.  The  air  was  moist 
and  chill.  There  was  no  light  from  moon  or  stars,  and  I  strode 
with  difficulty,  though  still  rapidly,  through  the  unpaved  streets. 
I  was  singularly  and  painfully  excited  by  the  conversation  with 
Kingsley.  My  own  experience  before,  had  prepared  me  to  be- 
come so,  with  the  slightest  additional  provocation.  Facts  were 
rapidly  accumulating  to  confirm  my  fears,  and  lessen  my  doubts. 
That  dark,  meaning  letter  of  Mrs.  Delaney !  The  adventure 
in  the  streamlet. — The  scream — the  look — the  secrecy !  What 
a  history  seemed  to  be  compressed  in  these  few  topics. 

I  hurried  forward  —  I  was  now  among  the  trees.  I  had  al- 
most to  grope  my  way,  it  was  so  dark.  I  was  helped  forward 
by  some  governing  instincts.  My  fiend  was  busy  all  the  while. 
I  fancied,  now,  that  there  was  something  exulting  in  his  tone. 
But  he  drove  me  forward  without  forbearance.  I  felt  that  these' 
clouds  in  the  sky — this  gloom  and  excitement  in  my  heart — 
were  not  for  nothing.  Every  gust  of  wind  brought  to  me  some 
whisper  of  fear ;  and  there  seemed  a  constant  murmur  among 
the  trees — one  burden — whose  incessant  utterance  was  only 
shame  and  wo.  How  completely  the  agony  of  one's  spirit 
sheds  its  tone  of  horror  upon  the  surrounding  world.  How  the 
flowers  wither  as  our  hearts  wither — how  sickly  grows  sunlight 
and  moonlight,  in  our  despair — how  lonely  and  utter  sad  is  the 
breath  of  winds,  when  our  bosoms  are  about  to  be  laid  bare 
of  hope  and  sustenance  by  the  brooding  tempest  of  our 
sorrows. 

I  had  a  terrible  prescience  of  some  dreadful  experience 
which  awaited  me  as  I  drove  forward.  Obstructions  of  tree 
and  shrub,  and  tangled  vines,  encountered  me,  but  did  not  long 


THE  UNBRIDLED  MADNESS.  £61 

arrest,  and  I  really  felt  them  not.  I  put  tLesn  aside  without  a 
consciousness. 

At  length  a  glimmering  light  informed  me  I  was  near  the 
cottage.  I  could  see  the  heavy  dark  masses  of  foliage  that 
crowded  before  the  entrance.  The  light  was  in  the  parlor. 
There  was  also  one  in  the  room  of  Mrs.  Porterfield.  Ours, 
which  was  on  the  same  floor  with  hers,  was  *in  darkness.  I 
never  experienced  sensations  more  like  those  of  a  drunken  man 
than  when,  working  my  way  cautiously  among  the  trees,  I  ap- 
proached the  window  The  glasses  were  down,  possibly  in 
consequence  of  the  violence  of  the  gust.  But  there  was  one 
thing  unusual.  The  curtains  were  also  down  at  both  windows. 
These  curtains  were  half-curtains  cnl.y.  They  fell  from  the 
upper  edge  of  the  lower  sash,  and  wars  simply  meant  to  protect 
the  inmates  from  the  casual  glance  of  persons  in  front.  The 
house  was  on  an  elevation  of  two  or  three  feet  from  the  ground. 
It  was  impossible  to  see  into  the  apartment  unless  I  could  raise 
rayself  at  least  that  much  above  my  own  stature.  I  looked 
around  me  for  a  stump,  bench,  block — anything;  but  iLe^ts 
was  nothing,  or  in  the  darkness  I  failed  to  find  it.  Tt:  Camber 
up  against  the  side  of  the  house  would  have  disturbed  the  in- 
mates. I  ascended  a  tree,  and  buriscl  within  its  leaves,  looked 
directly  into  the  apartment. 

They  were  together!  alone  ! — at  the  eternal  chess!  Julia 
sat  upon  the  sofa.  Edgerton  in  front  of  her.  A  small  table 
stood  between  tlum.  I  had  arrived  at  an  opportune  moment. 
Julia's  hand  was  extended  to  the  board.  I  saw  the  very  piece 
it  rested  upon.  It  was  the  white  queen ;  but,  just  at  that  mo- 
ment—  nothing  could  be  more  clearly  visible — the  hand  of 
Edgerton  was  laid  upon  hers.  She  instantly  withdrew  it,  and 
looked  upward.  Her  face  was  the  color  of  carnation — flushed 
—  so  said  my  demon,  with  the  overwhelming  passions  in  her 
breast.  The  next  £?.on..snt  the  table  was  thrust  aside — the 
chess-men  tumbled  Lpon  the  floor,  and  Edgerton  kneeling  be- 
fore my  wife  had  grasped  her  about  the  waist,  and  was  drag- 
ging her  to  his  knee. 

I  saw  no  more.  A  sudden  darkness  passed  over  my  eyes.  A 
keen,  quick,  thrilling  pang  went  through  my  whole  frame,  and  I 
fell  from  the  tree,  upon  the  earth  below,  in  utter  unconsciousness 


•352  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

FATAL   SILENCE. 

B  and  cruel  destiny !  When  everything  depended 
r.pon  my  firmness,  I  was  overwhelmed  by  feebleness.  It  seemed 
as  if  I  had  not  before  believed  that  this  terrible  moment  of 
confirmation  would  come.  And  yet,  if  anybody  could  have 
been  prepared  for  such  a  discovery,  I  should  have  been.  I  had 
biooded  ever  it  for  months.  A  thousand  times  had  my  imagi- 
nation pictured  it  to  me  in  the  most  vivid  and  fearful  aspect. 
I  fancied  that  I  should  have  been  steeled  Ly  conviction  against 
every  other  feeling  but  that  of  vengeance.  But  in  reality,  my 
hope  was  so  sanguine,  i^y  love  for  Julia  so  fervent,  I  did  not, 
amidst  all  my  fears,  really  believe  that  such  a  thing  could  ever 
prove  true.  All  my  boasted  planning  and  preparation,  and  es- 
pionage, had  only  deceived  myself.  I  believed,  at  worst,  that 
Julia  might  be  brought  to  love  William  Edgerton,  but  that  he 
would  presume  to  give  utterance  to  his  L  ve,  and  that  she  would 
submit  to  listen,  was  not  truly  within  my  belief.  I  had  not 
been  prepared  for  this,  however  much,  in  my  last  interview  with 
Kingsley,  I  had  professed  myself  to  be. 

But  had  she  submitted  1  That  was  still  a  question.  I  had 
seen  nothing  beyond  what  I  have  stated.  His  audacious  hand 
had  rested  upon  hers — his  impious  arm  had  encircled  her  waist, 
and  then  my  blindness  and  darkness  followed,  I  was  struck  as 
completely  senseless,  and  fell  from  the  tree  with  >,g  little  seem- 
ing life,  as  if  a  sudden  bullet  had  traversed  my  heart. 

In  this  state  I  lay.  How  long  I  know  not — it  must  have 
been  for  several  hours.  I  was  brought  to  consciousness  by  a 


FATAL  SILENCE.  353 

sense  of  cold.  I  was  benumbed  —  a  steady  rain  was  falling, 
and  from  the  condition  of  my  clothes,  which  were  completely 
saturated,  must  have  been  falling  for  some  time  previous.  I 
rose  with  pain  and  difficulty  to  rny  feet.  I  was  still  as  one 
stunned  and  stupified,  by  one  of  those  extremes  of  suffering  for 
which  the  overcharged  heart  can  find  no  sufficient  or  sufficient- 
ly rapid  method  of  relief.  When  I  rose,  the  light  was  no  longer 
in  the  parlor.  The  parties  were  withdrawn. 

Horrible  thought !  That  I  should  have  failed  at  that  trying 
moment.  I  knew  everything — I  knew  nothing.  It  was  still 
possible  that  Julia  had  repulsed  him.  I  had  seen  his  audacity 
only  —  was  it  followed  by  her  guilt  ?  How  shall  that  be  known  1 
I  could  answer  this  question  as  Kingsley  would  have  answered  it. 

"  If  your  wife  be  honest,  she  must  now  reveal  the  truth. 
She  can  no  longer  forbear.  The  proceeding  of  Edgerton  hns 
been  too  decided,  and  she  shares  his  guilt  if  she  longer  keeps  it 
secret.  The  wife  who  submits  to  this  form  of  insult,  without 
seeking  protection  where  alone  it  may  be  found,  clearly  shows 
that  the  offence  is  grateful  to  her  —  that  she  deems  it  no  insult." 

That,  then,  shall  be  the  test !  So  I  determined.  Edgerton 
must  be  punished.  There  is  no  escape.  But  for  her — if  she 
does  not  seek  the  earliest  occasion  to  reveal  the  truth,  she  is 
guilty  beyond  doubt — doomed  beyond  redemption. 

I  entered  the  house  with  difficulty.  I  was  as  feeble  as  if  I 
had  been  under  the  hands  of  the  physician  for  weeks.  A  light 
was  burning  on  the  staircase.  I  took  it  and  went  into  the  par- 
lor, which  I  narrowly  examined.  There  were  no  remaining 
proofs  of  the  late  disorder.  The  table  was  set  against  the  wall. 
The  chess-men  were  all  gathered  up,  and  neatly  put  away  in 
the  box,  which  stood  upon  the  mantel. 

"  There  is  proof  of  coolness  and  deliberation  here !"  I  mut- 
tered to  myself,  as  I  took  my  way  up-stairs.  When  I  entered 
my  chamber,  I  felt  a  pang,  the  fore-runner  of  a  spasm.  I  had 
been  for  several  years  afflicted  with  these  spasms,  in  great  or 
small  degree.  They  marked  every  singular  mental  excitement 
under  which  I  labored.  It  was  no  doubt  one  of  these  spasms 
which  had  seized  and  overpowered  me  while  I  sat  within  the 
tree.  Never  before  had  I  suffered  from  one  so  severe ;  but  the 
violence  of  this  was  naturnlly  due  to  the  extreme  of  agony — as 


354  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

sudden  as  it  was  terrible  —  which  seized  upon  my  soul.  My 
physician  had  provided  me  with  a  remedy  against  these  attacks 
to  which  I  was  accustomed  to  resort.  This,  though  a  potent 
remedy,  was  also  a  potent  poison.  It  was  a  medicine  called 
the  hydrocyanic  or  prussic  acid.  Five  minims  was  a  dose,  hut 
two  drops  were  death.  I  went  to  the  medicine-case  which 
stood  beneath  the  head  of  the  bed,  with  the  view  to  getting  out 
the  vial ;  but  my  wife  started  up  eagerly  as  I  approached,  and 
with  trembling  accents,  demanded  what  was  the  matter.  She 
saw  me  covered  with  mud  and  soaking  with  water.  I  told  her 
that  I  had  got  wet  coming  homeward  and  had  slipped  down 
the  hill. 

"Why  did  you  stay  so  late — why  not  come  home  sooner, 
dear  husband  ?" 

"  Hypocrite  !"  I  muttered  while  stooping  down  for  the  chest, 

'You  are  sick  —  you  have  your  spasms!"  she  now  said, 
rising  from  the  bed  and  offering  to  measure  the  medicine.  This 
she  had  repeatedly  done  before ;  but  I  was  not  now  willing  to 
trust  her.  Doubts  of  her  fidelity  led  to  other  doubts. 

"  If  she  is  prepared  to  dishonor,  she  is  prepared  to  destroy 
you  !"  said  my  familiar. 

This  suggestion  seized  upon  my  brain,  and  while  I  measured 
out  the  minims,  the  busy  fiend  reminded  me  that  I  grasped  the 
bane  as  well  as  the  antidote  in  my  hand.  A  stern,  a  terrible 
image  of  retributive  justice  presented  itself  before  my  thoughts. 
The  feeling  of  an  awful  necessity  grew  strong  within  me. 
"  Shall  the  adulterer  alone  perish  ?  Shall  the  adultress  escape?" 
The  fiend  answered  with  tremulous  but  stern  passion — "She 
shall  surely  die !" 

"  If  she  reveals  not  the  truth  in  season,"  I  said  in  my  secret 
soul ;  "  if  she  claims  not  protection  at  my  hands  against  the 
adulterer,  she  shall  share  his  fate  !"  and  with  this  resolve,  even 
at  the  moment  when  I  was  measuring  the  antidote  for  myself,  I 
resolved  that  the  same  vial  should  furnish  the  bane  for  her ! 

The  medicine  relieved  me,  though  not  with  the  same  prompt- 
ness as  usual.  I  looked  at  the  watch  and  found  it  two  o'clock. 
My  wife  begged  me  to  come  to  bed,  but  that  was  impossible. 
I  proceeded  to  change  my  garments.  By  the  time  that  I  had 
finished,  the  rain  ceased,  the  stars  came  out,  the  morning  prom- 


THE   FATAL  SILENCE.  355 

ised  to  be  clear.  I  determined  to  set  forth  from  my  office.  I 
had  no  particular  purpose ;  hut  I  felt  that  I  could  not  meditate 
where  she  was.  She  continually  spoke  to  me  —  always  tenderly 
and  with  great  earnestness.  1  pleaded  my  spasms  as  a  reason 
for  not  lying  down.  But  I  lingered.  I  was  as  unwilling  to  go 
as  to  stay.  I  longed  to  hear  her  narrative ;  and,  once  or  twice, 
I  fancied  that  ehe  wished  to  tell  me  something.  But  she  did 
not.  I  waited  till  near  daylight,  in  order  that  she  should  have 
every  opportunity,  but  she  said  little  beyond  making  profes- 
sions of  love,  and  imploring  me  to  come  to  bed. 

In  sheer  despair,  at  last,  I  went  out,  taking  my  pistol-case, 
unperceived  by  her,  under  my  arm.  I  went  to  my  office  where 
I  locked  it  up.  There  I  seated  myself,  brooding  in  a  very 
whirlwind  of  thought,  until  after  daylight. 

When  the  sun  had  risen,  I  went  to  a  man  in  the  neighbor- 
hood who  hired  out  vehicles.  I  ordered  a  close  carriage  to  be 
at  my  door  by  a  certain  hour,  immediately  after  breakfast.  I 
then  despatched  a  note  to  Kingsley,  saying  briefly  that  Edger- 
ton  and  myself  would  call  for  him  at  nine.  I  then  returned 
home.  My  wife  had  arisen,  but  had  not  left  the  chamber.  She 
pleaded  headache  and  indisposition,  and  declined  coming  out  to 
breakfast.  She  seemed  very  sad  and  unhappy,  not  to  say 
greatly  disquieted  —  appearances  which  I  naturally  attributed 
to  guilt.  For  —  still  she  said  nothing.  I  lingered  near  her  on 
various  small  pretences  in  the  hope  to  hear  her  speak.  I  even 
made  several  approaches  which,  I  fancied,  might  tend  to  pro- 
voke the  wished-for  revelation.  Indeed,  it  was  wished  for  as 
ardently  as  over  soul  wished  for  the  permission  to  live  —  prayed 
for  as  sinceiely  as  the  dying  man  prays  for  respite,  and  the  tem- 
porary remission  of  his  doom. 

In  vain !  My  wife  said  little,  and  nothing  to  the  purpose. 
The  moments  became  seriously  short.  Could  she  have  anything 
to  say  1  Was  it  possible  that,  being  innocent,  she  should  still 
lock  up  the  guilty  secret  in  her  bosom  ?  She  could  not  be  in- 
nocent to  do  so  !  This  conclusion  seemed  inevitable.  In  order 
that  she  should  have  no  plea  of  discouragement,  I  spoke  to  her 
with  great  tenderness  of  manner,  with  a  more  than  usual  display 
of  feeling.  It  was  no  mere  show.  I  felt  all  that  I  said  and 
looked.  I  knew  that  a  trying  and  terrible  event  was  at  hand 


356  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND    HEAR?. 

—  an  event  painful  to  us  both  —  and  all  my  love  for  her  revived 
with  tenfold  earnestness.  Oh !  how  I  longed  to  take  her  into 
my  arms,  and  warn  her  tenderly  of  the  consequences  of  her  er- 
ror ;  but  this,  of  course,  was  impossible.  But,  short  of  this,  I 
did  everything  that  I  thought  likely  to  induce  her  confidence. 
I  talked  familiarly  to  her,  and  fondly,  with  an  effort  at  childlike 
simplicity  and  earnestness,  in  the  hope  that,  by  thus  renewing 
the  dearest  relations  of  ease  and  happiness  between  us,  she 
should  be  beguiled  into  her  former  trusting  readiness  of  speech. 
She  met  my  fondnesses  with  equal  fondness.  It  seemed  to  give 
her  particular  pleasure  that  I  should  be  thus  fond.  In  her  em- 
brace, requiting  mine,  she  clung  to  me ;  and  her  tears  dropping 
warm  upon  my  hands,  were  yet  attended  by  smiles  of  the  most 
hearty  delight.  A  thousand  times  she  renewed  the  assurances 
of  her  love  and  attachment — nay,  she  even  went  so  far  as  ten- 
derly to  upbraid  me  that  our  moments  of  endearment  were  so 
few ;  —  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  she  still  forbore  the  one  only 
subject.  She  still  said  nothing ;  and  as  I  knew  how  much 
she  could  say  and  ought  to  say,  which  she  did  not  say,  I  could 
not  resist  the  conviction  that  her  tears  were  those  of  the  croco- 
dile, and  her  assurances  of  love  the  glozing  commonplaces  of 
the  harlot. 

In  silence  she  suffered  me  to  leave  her  for  the  breakfast-table. 
She  looked,  it  is  true — but  what  had  I  to  do  with  looks,  how- 
ever earnest  and  devoted  1  I  went  from  her  slowly.  When 
on  the  stairs,  fancying  I  had  heard  her  voice,  I  returned,  but 
she  had  not  called  me.  She  was  still  silent.  Full  of  sadness  I 
left  her,  counting  slowly  and  sadly  every  step  which  I  took 
from  her  presence. 

Edgerton  was  already  at  table.  He  looked  very  wretched 
I  observed  him  closely.  His  eye  shrunk  from  the  encounter  of 
mine.  His  looks  answered  sufficiently  for  his  guilt.  I  said  to 
him : — 

"  I  have  to  ride  out  a  little  ways  in  the  country  this  morning, 
and  count  upon  your  company.  I  trust  you  feel  well  enough  to 
go  with  me  1  Indeed,  it  will  do  you  good." 

Of  course,  my  language  and  manner  were  stripped  of  every- 
thing that  might  alarm  his  fears.  He  hesitated,  but  complied. 
The  carriage  was  at  the  door  before  we  had  finished  breakfast ; 


THE  FATAL  SILENCE.  357 

and  with  no  other  object  than  simply  to  afford  her  another  op- 
portunity for  the  desired  revelation,  I  once  more  went  up  to  my 
wife's  chamber.  Here  I  lingered  fully  ten  minutes,  affecting  to 
search  for  a  paper  in  trunks  where  I  knew  it  could  not  be  found. 
While  thus  engaged  I  spoke  to  her  frequently  and  fondly.  She 
did  not  need  the  impulse  to  make  her  revelation,  except  in  her  own 
heart.  The  occasion  was  unemployed.  She  suffered  me  once 
more  to  depart  in  silence ;  and  this  time  I  felt  as  if  the  word  of 
utter  and  inevitable  wo  had  been  spoken.  The  hour  had  gone 
by  for  ever.  I  could  no  longer  resist  the  conviction  of  her 
shameless  guilt.  All  her  sighs  and  tears,  professions  of  love  and 
devotion,  the  fond  tenacity  of  her  embrace,  the  deep-seated 
earnestness  and  significance  in  her  looks — all  went  for  nothing 
in  her  failure  to  utter  the  one  only,  and  all-important  communi- 
cation. 

Let  no  woman,  on  any  pretext,  however  specious,  deceive 
herself  with  the  fatal  error,  that  she  can  safely  harbor,  unspoken 
to  her  husband,  the  secret  of  any  insult,  or  base  approach,  of 
another  to  herself! 


358  CONFESSION,  OE  THE  BLIND  HEABT. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

TOO    LATE ! 

EDGERTON  announced  himself  to  be  in  readiness,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  declared  his  intention  to  withdraw  at  once  from 
our  hospitality  and  return  to  his  old  lodging-house.  He  had 
already  given  instructions  to  his  servant  for  the  removal  of 
his  things. 

"What!"  I  said  with  a  feeling  of  irony,  which  did  not 
make  itself  apparent  in  my  speech — "  you  are  tired  of  our 
hospitality,  Edgerton  ?  We  have  not  treated  you  well,  I  am 
afraid." 

"  Yes,"  he  muttered  faintly,  "  too  well.  I  have  every  reason 
to  be  gratified  and  grateful.  No  reason  to  complain." 

He  forced  himself  to  say  something  more  by  way  of  ac- 
knowledgment ;  bnt  to  this  I  gave  little  heed.  We  drove  first 
to  Kingsley's,  and  took  him  up ;  then,  to  my  office,  where  I  got 
out,  and,  entering  the  office,  wrapped  up  my  pistol-case  care- 
fully in  a  newspaper,  so  that  the  contents  might  not  be  conjec- 
tured, and  bringing  it  forth,  thrust  it  into  the  boot  of  the  car 
riage. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?"  demanded  Kingsley. 

"  Something  for  digestion,"  was  my  reply.  "  We  may  be 
kept  late." 

"  You  are  wise  enough  to  be  a  traveller,"  said  Kingsley ;  and 
without  further  words  we  drove  on.  I  fancied  that  when  I  put 
the  case  into  the  vehicle,  Edgerton  looked  somewhat  suspicious. 
That  he  was  uneasy  was  evident  enough.  He  could  not  well 
be  otherwise.  The  consciousness  of  guilt  was  enough  to  make 


TOO  LATH!  359 

him  so ;  and  then  there  was  but  little  present  sympathy  between 
himself  and  Kingsley, 

I  had  already  given  the  driver  instructions.    He  carried  us 

into  the  loneliest  spot  of  woods  some  four  miles  from  M ,  and 

in  a  direction  very  far  from  the  beaten  track. 

"  What  brings  you  into  this  quarter  ?"  demanded  Kingsley. 
"  What  business  have  you  here  1" 

"  We  stop  here,"  I  said  as  the  carriage  drove  up.  "  I  have 
some  land  to  choose  and  measure  here.  Shall  we  alight, 
gentlemen  ?" 

I  took  the  pistol-case  in  my  hands  and  led  the  way.  They 
followed  me.  The  carriage  remained.  We  went  on  together 
several  hundred  yards  until  I  fancied  we  should  be  quite  safe 
from  interruption.  We  were  in  a  dense  forest.  At  a  little  dis- 
tance was  a  small  stretch  of  tolerably  open  pine  land,  which 
seemed  to  answer  the  usual  purposes.  Here  I  paused  and  con- 
fronted them. 

"  Mr.  Kingsley,"  I  said  without  further  preliminaries,  "  I  have 
taken  the  liberty  of  bringing  you  here,  as  the  most  honorable 
man  I  know,  in  order  that  you  should  witness  the  adjustment 
of  at  affair  of  honor  between  Mr.  Edgerton  and  myself." 

As  I  spoke  I  unrolled  the  pistol-case.  Edgerton  grew  pale 
as  death,  but  remained  silent.  Kingsley  was  evidently  aston- 
ished, but  not  so  much  so  as  to  forbear  the  obvious  answer. 

"How!  an  affair  of  honor?  Is  this  inevitable — necessary, 
Clifford  1" 

"Absolutely!" 

"  In  no  way  to  be  adjusted  1" 

"  In  but  one !  This  man  has  dishonored  me  in  the  dearest 
relations  of  my  household." 

"Ha!  can  it  be?" 

"  Too  true !  There  is  no  help  for  it  now.  I  am  dealing  with 
him  still  as  a  man  of  honor.  I  should  have  been  justified  in 
shooting  him  down  like  a  dog  —  as  one  shoots  down  the  reptile 
that  crawls  to  the  cradle  of  his  children.  I  give  him  an  equal 
chance  for  life." 

"  It  is  only  what  I  feared  !"  said  Kingsley,  looking  at4  Edger- 
ton as  he  spoke. 

The  latter  had  staggered  back  against  a  tree.     Big  drops  of 


360  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

sweat  stood  upon  his  brows.  His  Lead  hung  down.  Still  lie 
was  silent.  I  gave  the  weapons  to  Kingsley,  who  proceeded  to 
charge  them. 

"I  will  not  fight  you,  Clifford!"  exclaimed  the  criminal  with 
husky  accents. 

"You  must!" 

"I  can  not  —  I  dare  not  —  I  will  not!  You  may  shoot  me 
down  where  I  stand.  I  have  wronged  you.  I  dare  not  lift 
weapon  at  your  breast." 

"  Wretch  !  say  not  this  !"  I  answered.  "  You  must  make  the 
atonement." 

"  Be  it  so  !     Shoot  me  !     You  are  right !  I  am  ready  to  die." 

"  No,  William  Edgerton,  no  !  You  must  not  refuse  me  the 
only  atonement  you  can  make.  You  must  not  couple  that  atone- 
ment with  a  sting.  Hear  me  !  You  have  violated  the  rites  of 
hospitality,  the  laws  of  honor  and  of  manhood,  and  grossly 
abused  all  the  obligations  of  friendship.  These  offences  would 
amply  justify  me  in  taking  your  life  without  scruple,  and  with- 
out exposing  my  own  to  any  hazard.  But  my  soul  revolts  at 
this.  I  remember  the  past  —  our  boyhood  together  —  and  the 
parental  kindness  of  your  venerated  parent.  These  deprive 
me  of  a  portion  of  that  bitterness  which  would  otherwise  have 
moved  me  to  destroy  you.  Take  the  pistol.  If  life  is  nothing 
to  you,  it  is  as  little  to  me  now.  Use  the  privilege  which  I  give 
you,  and  I  shall  be  satisfied  with  the  event." 

He  shook  his  head  while  he  repeated : — 

"  No  !  I  can  not.     Say  no  more,  Clifford.     I  deserve  death  !" 

I  clapped  the  pistol  to  his  head.  He  folded  his  arms,  lifted 
his  eyes,  and  regarded  me  more  steadily  than  he  had  done  for 
months  before.  Kingsley  struck  up  my  arm,  as  I  was  cocking 
the  weapon. 

"  He  must  die  1"  I  exclaimed  fiercely. 

"  Yes,  that  is  certain !"  replied  the  other.  "  But  I  am  not 
willing  that  I  should  be  brought  here  as  the  witness  to  a  mur- 
der. If  he  will  fight  you,  I  will  see  you  through.  If  he  will 
not  fight  you,  there  needs  no  witness  to  your  shooting  him. 
You  have  no  right,  Clifford,  to  require  this  of  me." 

"  You  are  not  a  coward,  William  Edgerton  ?" 

"  Coward !"  he    exclaimed,  and   his  form    rose  to   its  fullest 


TOO  LATBJ  361 

height,  and  his  eye  flashed  out  the  fires  of  a  manhood,  which 
of  late  he  had  not  often  shown. 

"  Coward  !  No  !  Do  I  not  tell  you  shoot  1  I  do  not  fear 
death.  Nay,  let  me  say  to  you,  Clifford,  I  long  for  it.  Life 
has  been  a  long  torture  to  me— is  still  a  torture.  It  can  not 
now  be  otherwise.  Take  it — you  will  see  me  smile  in  the 
death  agony." 

"  Hear  me  William  Edgerton,  and  submit  to  my  will.  You 
know  not  half  your  wrong.  You  drove  me  from  my  home — 
my  birthplace.  When  I  was  about  to  sacrifice  you  for  your 

previous  invasion  of  my  peace  in  C ,  I  looked  on  your  old 

father,  I  heard  the  story  of  his  disappointment — his  sorrows  — 
and  you  were  the  cause.  I  determined  to  spare  you — to  banish 
myself  rather,  in  order  to  avoid  the  necessity  of  taking  your 
life.  You  were  not  satisfied  with  having  wrought  this  result. 
You  have  pursued  me  to  the  woods,  where  my  cottage  once 
more  began  to  blossom  with  the  fruits  of  peace  and  love.  You 
trample  upon  its  peace — you  renew  your  indignities  and  per- 
fidies here.  You  drive  me  to  desperation  and  fill  my  habitation 
with  disgrace.  Will  you  deny  me  then  what  I  ask  ?  Will 
you  refuse  me  the  atonement — any  atonement — which  I  may 
demand  ?" 

"  No,  Clifford !"  he  replied,  after  a  pause  in  which  he  seemed 
subdued  with  shame  and  remorse.  **  You  shall  have  it  as  you 
wish.  I  will  fight  you.  I  am  all  that  you  declare.  I  am 
guilty  of  the  wrong  you  urge  against  me.  I  knew  not,  till 

now,  that  I  had  been  the  cause  of  your  flight  from  C .    Had 

I  known  that  I" 

Kingsley  offered  him  the  pistol. 

"  No  !"  he  said,  putting  it  aside.  "  Not  now !  I  will  give  you 
this  atonement  this  afternoon.  At  this  moment  I  can  not.  I 
must  write.  I  must  make  another  atonement.  Your  claim  for 
justice,  Clifford,  must  not  preclude  my  settlement  of  the  claims 
of  others." 

"  Mine  must  have  preference !" 

"  It  shall !  The  atonement  which  I  propose  to  make  shall 
be  one  of  repentance.  You  would  not  deny  me  the  melancholy 
privilege  of  saying  a  few  last  words  to  my  wretched  parents  t" 

"No!  no!  no!" 

16 


362  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

"  I  thank  you,  Clifford.  Come  for  me  at  four  to  my  lodgings 
— bring  Mr.  Kingsley  with  you.  You  will  find  me  ready  to 
atone,  and  to  save  you  every  unnecessary  pang  in  doing  so." 

This  ended  our  conference.  Kingsley  rode  home  with  him, 
while,  throwing  myself  upon  the  ground,  I  surrendered  myself 
to  such  meditations  as  were  natural  to  the  moods  which  govern- 
ed  me.  They  were  dark  and  dismal  enough.  Edgerton  had 
avowed  his  guilt.  Could  there  be  any  doubt  on  the  subject  of 
my  wife's  ?  He  had  made  no  sort  of  qualification  in  his  avow- 
al of  guilt,  which  might  acquit  her.  He  had  evidently  made 
his  confession  with  the  belief  that  I  was  already  in  possession 
of  the  whole  truth.  One  hope  alone  remained  —  that  my  wife's 
voluntary  declaration  would  still  be  forthcoming.  To  that  I 
clung  as  the  drowning  man  to  his  last  plank.  When  Kingsley 
and  Edgerton  first  left  me,  I  had  resolved  to  waste  the  hours 
in  the  woods  and  not  to  return  home  until  after  my  final  meet- 
ing in  the  afternoon  with  the  latter.  It  might  be  that  I  should 
not  return  home  then,  and  in  such  an  event  I  was  not  unwilling 
that  my  wife  should  still  live,  the  miserable  thing  which  she  had 
made  herself.  But,  with  the  still  fond  hope  that  she  might 
speak,  and  speak  in  season,  I  now  resolved  to  return  at  the 
usual 'dinner  hour;  and,  timing  myself  accordingly,  I  prolonged 
my  wanderings  through  the  woods  until  noon.  I  then  set 
forward,  and  reached  the  cottage  a  little  sooner  than  I  had  ex- 
pected. 

I  found  Julia  in  bed.  She  complained  of  headache  and  fever. 
She  had  already  taken  medicine  —  I  sat  beside  her.  I  spoke 
to  her  in  the  tenderest  language. '  I  felt,  at  the  moment  when  I 
feared  to  lose  her  for  ever,  that  I  could  love  nothing  half  so  well. 
I  spoke  to  her  with  as  much  freedom  as  fondness ;  and,  moment- 
ly expecting  her  to  make  the  necessary  revelation,  I  hung  upon 
her  slightest  words,  and  hung  upon  them  only  to  be  disappointed. 

The  dinner  hour  came.  The  meal  was  finished.  I  returned 
to  the  chamber,  and  once  more  resumed  my  place  beside  her  on 
the  couch.  I  strove  to  inspire  her  with  confidence — to  awaken 
her  sensibilities — to  beguile  her  to  the  desired  utterance,  but 
in  vain.  Of  course  I  could  give  no  hint  whatsoever  of  the 
knowledge  which  I  had  obtained.  After  that,  her  confession 


TOO  LATE!  363 

would  have  been  no  longer  voluntary,  and  could  no  longer  have 
been  credited. 

Time  sped — too  rapidly  as  I  thought.  Though  anxious  for 
vengeance,  I  loved  her  too  fondly  not  to  desire  to  delay  the 
minutes  in  the  earnest  expectation  that  she  would  speak  at 
last.  She  did  not.  The  hour  approached  of  my  meeting  with 
Edgerton ;  and  then  I  felt  that  Edgerton  was  not  the  only 
criminal. 

Mrs.  Porterfield  just  then  brought  in  some  warm  tea,  and 
placed  it  on  the  table  at  the  bed  head.  After  a  few  moments' 
delay,  she  left  us  alone  together.  The  eyes  of  my  wife  were 
averted.  The  vial  of  prussic  acid  stood  on  the  same  table  with 
the  tea.  I  rose  from  the  couch,  interposed  my  person  between 
it  and  the  table — and,  taking  up  the  poison,  deliberately  pour- 
ed three  drops  into  the  beverage.  I  never  did  anything  more 
firmly.  Yet  I  was  not  the  less  miserable,  because  I  was  most 
firm.  My  nerve  was  that  of  the  executioner  who  carries  out  a 
just  judgment.  This  done,  I  put  the  vial  into  my  pocket. 
Julia  then  spoke  to  me.  I  turned  to  her  with  eagerness.  I  was 
prepared  to  cast  the  vessel  of  tea  from  the  window.  It  was 
my  hope  that  she  was  about  to  speak,  though  late,  the  neces- 
sary truths.  But  she  only  called  to  me  to  know  if  I  had  been 
to  my  office  during  the  morning. 

"  Not  since  nine  o'clock,"  was  my  answer.     "  Why  ?" 

"Nothing.  But  are  you  going  to  your  office  now,  dear 
husband?" 

"  Not  directly.  I  shall  possibly  be  there  in  the  course  of  the 
afternoon.  What  do  you  wish  1  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  replied ;  "  but  I  will  tell  you  to-morrow 
why  I  ask." 

"  To-morrow  1 — tell  me  now,  if  it  be  anything  of  moment. 
Now  S  now  is  the  appointed  time !"  The  serious  language  of 
Scripture  became  natural  to  me  in  the  agonizing  situation  in 
which  I  stood. 

"  No  !  no  !  to-morrow  will  do.  I  will  not  gratify  your  curi- 
osity. You  are  too  curious,  husband ;"  and  she  turned  from 
me,  smiling,  upon  the  couch. 

I  felt  that  what  she  might  tell  me  to-morrow  could  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  affair  between  herself  ani 


864  CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND    HEART. 

That  could  be  no  object  for  jest  and  merriment.  I  turned 
from  her  slowly,  with  a  feeling  at  my  heart  which  was  nat  ex- 
actly madness — for  I  knew  then  what  I  was  doing — but  it  was 
just  the  feeling  to  make  me  doubtful  how  long  I  should  be  se- 
cure  from  madness. 

"  To-morrow  will  not  do,"  I  muttered  to  myself  as  I  descend- 
ed the  stairs.     "  Too  late !—  too  late !" 


SUICIDE.  365 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

SUICIDE. 

FROM  the  cottage  I  proceeded  to  Kingsley's.  He  was  in 
readiness,  and  waiting  me.  We  drove  directly  to  Edgerton's 
lodging-house,  the  appointed  hour  of  four  being  at  hand. 
Kingsley  only  alighted  from  the  carriage,  and  entered  the 
dwelling.  He  was  absent  several  minutes.  When  he  returned, 
he  returned  alone. 

"  Edgerton  is  either  asleep  or  has  gone  out.  His  room-door 
is  locked.  The  landlord  called  and  knocked,  but  received  no 
answer.  He  lacks  manliness,  and  I  suspect  has  fled.  The 
steamboat  went  at  two." 

"Impossible!"  I  exclaimed,  leaping  from  the  carriage.  "I 
know  Edgerton  better.  I  can  not  think  he  would  fly,  after  the 
solemn  pledge  he  gave  me." 

"  You  have  only  thought  too  well  of  him  always,"  said  the 
other,  as  we  entered  the  house. 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  room  together,"  I  said  to  the  landlord.  "  I 
fear  something  wrong." 

"  Well,  so  do  I,"  responded  the  publican.  "  The  poor  gentle- 
man has  been  looking  very  badly,  and  sometimes  gets  into  a 
strange  wild  taking,  and  then  he  goes  along  seeing  nobody. 
Only  last  Saturday  I  said  to  my  old  woman,  as  how  I  thought 
everything  warn't  altogether  right  here" — and  the  licensed 
sinner  touched  his  head  with  his  fore-finger,  himself  looking 
the  very  picture  of  well-satisfied  sagacity.  We  said  nothing; 
but  leaving  the  eloquence  to  him,  followed  him  up  to  Edgerton'i 
chamber.  I  struck  the  door  thrice  with  the  butt  end  of  my 
whip,  then  called  his  name,  but  without  receiving  any  answer. 


#66  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

Endeavoring  to  look  through  the  key -hole,  I  discovered  the  key 
on  the  inside,  and  within  the  lock.  I  then  immediately  conjec- 
tured the  truth.  William  Edgerton  had  committed  suicide. 

And  so  it  was.  We  burst  the  door,  and  found  him  suspended 
by  a  silk  handkerchief  to  a  beam  that  traversed  the  apartment. 
He  had  raised  himself  upon  a  chair,  which  he  had  kicked  over 
after  the  knot  had  been  adjusted.  Such  a  proceeding  evinced 
the  most  determined  resolution. 

We  took  him  down  with  all  despatch,  but  life  had  already 
been  long  extinct.  He  must  have  been  hanging  two  hours, 
His  face  was  perfectly  livid  —  his  eyeballs  dilated — his  mouth 
distorted  —  but  the  neck  remained  unbroken.  He  had  died  by 
suffocation.  I  pass  over  the  ordinary  proceedings — the  conster- 
nation, the  clamor,  the  attendance  of  the  grave-looking  gen- 
tlemen with  lancet  and  lotion.  They  did  a  great  deal,  of  course, 
in  doing  nothing.  Nothing  could  be  done.  Then  followed 
the  "  crowner's"  inquest.  A  paper,  addressed  to  the  landlord, 
was  submitted  to  them,  and  formed  the  burden  of  their  report. 

"  I  die  by  my  own  hands,"  said  this  document,  "  that  I  may 
lose  the  sense  of  pain,  bodily  and  mental.  I  die  at  peace  with 
the  world.  It  has  never  wronged  me.  I  am  the  source  of  my 
own  sorrows,  as  I  am  the  cause  of  my  own  death.  I  will  not 
say  that  I  die  sane.  I  am  doubtful  on  that  head.  I  am  sure 
that  I  have  been  the  victim  of  a  sort  of  madness  for  a  very 
long  time.  This  has  led  me  to  do  wrong,  and  to  meditate  wrong 
— has  made  me  guilty  of  many  things,  which,  in  my  better  mo- 
ments of  mind  and  body,  I  should  have  shrunk  from  in  horror. 
I  write  this  that  nobody  may  be  suspected  of  sharing  in  a  deed 
the  blame  of  which  must  rest  on  my  head  only." 

Then  followed  certain  apologies  to  the  landlord  for  having 
made  his  house  the  scene  of  an  event  so  shocking.  The  same 
paper  also  conveyed  certain  presents  of  personal  stuff  to  the 
same  person,  with  thanks  for  his  courtesy  and  attention.  An 
adequate  sum  of  money,  paying  his  bill,  and  the  expenses  of  his 
funeral,  was  left  in  his  purse,  upon  the  paper. 

Kingsley  assumed  the  final  direction  of  these  affairs ;  and 
having  seen  everything  in  a  fair  way  for  the  funeral,  which  was 
appointed  to  take  place  the  next  morning,  he  hurried  me  away 
to  his  lodging-house. 


fJOEFESSION   OP 


CHAPTER  L. 

CONFESSION   OF   EDGERTON. 

WHEN  within  his  chamber,  he  carefully  fastened  the  door 
and  placed  a  packet  in  my  hands. 

"This  is  addressed  to  you,"  he  said.  "I  found  it  on  the 
table  with  other  papers,  and  seeing  the  address,  and  fearing 
that  if  the  jury  laid  eyes  on  it,  they  might  insist  on  knowing 
its  contents,  I  thrust  it  into  my  pocket  and  said  nothing  about 
it  there.  Eead  it  at  your  leisure,  while  I  smoke  a  cigar  below." 

He  left  me,  and  I  opened  the  seal  with  a  sense  of  misgiving 
and  apprehension  for  which  I  could  not  easily  account.  The 
outer  packet  was  addressed  to  myself.  But  the  envelope  con- 
tained several  other  papers,  one  of  which  was  addressed  to  hia 
father;  another  —  a  small  billet,  unsealed — bore  the  name  of 
my  wife  upon  it. 

"  That,"  I  inly  muttered,  "  she  shall  never  read !" 

An  instant  after,  I  trembled  with  a  convulsive  horror,  as  the 
demon  who  had  whispered  in  my  ears  so  long,  seemed  to  say, 
in  mocking  accents  : — 

"Shall  not!  Ha!  ha!  She  can  not!  can  not !"  and  then 
the  fiend  seemed  to  chuckle,  and  I  remembered  the  insuppiessi- 
:le  anguish  of  Othello's  apostrophe,  to  make  all  its  eloouence 
my  own.  I  murmured  audibly  : — 

"  My  wife !  my  wife !    What  wife  ?— I  have  no  wife ! 
Oh,  insupportable  —  oh,  heavy  hour  1" 

My  eyes  were  blinded.  My  face  sunk  down  upon  the  table, 
and  a  cold  shiver  shook  my  frame  as  if  I  had  an  ague.  But  I 
recovered  myself  when  I  remembered  the  wrongs  I  had  endur- 
ed— her  guilt  and  the  guilt  of  Edgerton.  I  clutched  the  papers 
— brushed  the  big  drops  from  my  forehead,  and  read  as  follows « 


368 


CONFESSION,    OR   THE   BLIND   HEART. 


"  Clifford,  I  save  you  guiltless  of  my  death.  You  would  be 
less  happy  were  my  blood  upon  your  hands,  for,  though  I  de- 
serve to  die  by  them,  I  know  your  nature  too  well  to  believe 
that  you  would  enjoy  any  malignant  satisfaction  at  the  perform- 
ance of  so  sad  a  duty.  Still,  I  know  that  this  is  no  atonement. 
I  have  simply  ceased  from  persecuting  you  and  the  angelic 
woman,  your  wife.  But  how  shall  I  atone  for  the  tortures  and 
annoyances  of  the  past,  inflicted  upon  you  both  ?  Never ! 
never  !  I  perish  without  hope  of  forgiveness,  though,  here,  alone 
with  God,  in  the  extreme  of  mortal  humility,  I  pray  for  it ! 

"Perhaps,  you  know  all.  From  what  escaped  you  this 
morning,  it  would  seem  so.  You  knew  of  my  madness  when  in 
C —  — ;  you  know  that  it  pursued  you  here.  Nothing  then 
remains  for  me  to  tell.  I  might  simply  say  all  is  true ;  but  that, 
in  the  confession  of  my  guilt  and  folly,  each  particular  act  of 
sin  demands  its  own  avowal,  as  it  must  be  followed  by  its  own 
bitter  agony  and  groan. 

"My  passion  for  your  wife  began  soon  after  your  marriage. 
Until  then  I  had  never  known  her.  You  will  acquit  me  of  any 
deliberate  design  to  win  her  affections.  I  strove,  as  well  as  I 
could,  to  suppress  my  own.  But  my  education  did  not  fit  me 
for  such  a  struggle.  The  indulgence  of  fond  parents  had  grati- 
fied all  my  wishes,  and  taught  me  to  expect  their  gratification. 
I  could  not  subdue  my  passions  even  when  they  were  unac- 
companied by  any  hopes.  Without  knowing  my  own  feelings, 
I  approached  your  wife.  Our  tastes  were  similar,  and  these 
furnished  the  legitimate  excuse  for  frequently  bringing  us  to- 
gether. The  friendly  liberality  of  your  disposition  enlarged 
the  privileges  of  the  acquaintance,  and,  without  meaning  it  at 
first,  I  abused  them.  I  sought  your  dwelling  at  unsuitable 
periods.  Unconsciously,  I  did  so,  just  at  those  periods  when 
you  were  most  likely  to  be  absent  I  first  knew  that  my  course 
was  wrong,  by  discovering  the  unwillingness  which  I  felt  to  en- 
counter you.  This  taught  me  to  know  the  true  nature  of  my 
sentiments,  but  without  enforcing  the  necessity  of  subduing 
them.  I  did  not  seek  to  subdue  them  long.  I  yielded  myself 
up,  with  the  recklessness  of  insanity,  to  a  passion  whose  very 
sweetness  had  the  effect  to  madden. 

"  My    fondness  for  your  wife  was    increased    by    pity.    You 


CONFESSION    OF   EDGERTON 

^.er  I  was  at  first  indignant  and  hated  you  accor- 
dingly. I3ut  i  became  glad  of  your  neglect  for  two  reasons 
It  gave  me  the  opportunities  for  seeing  her  which  I  desired  ; 
and  I  felt  persuaded  with  a  vain  folly,  that  nothing  could  bb 
more  natural  than  that  she  would  make  a  comparison,  favorable 
of  course  to  myself,  between  my  constant  solicitude  and  atten- 
tion and  your  ungenerous  abandonment.  But  I  was  mistaken. 
The  steady  virtue  of  the  wife  revenged  the  wrong  which,  with- 
out deliberately  intending  it,  I  practised  against  the  .husband. 
When  my  attentions  became  apparent,  she  received  me  with 
marked  coolness  and  reserve  ;  and  finally  ceased  to  frequent  the 
atelier,  which,  while  art  alone  was  my  object,  yielded,  I  think, 
an  equal  and  legitimate  pleasure  to  us  both. 

"  I  saw  and  felt  the  change,  but  had  not  the  courage  to  dis- 
continue my  persecutions.  My  passion,  and  the  tenacity  with 
which  it  enforced  its  claims,  seemed  to  increase  with  every 
difficulty  and  denial.  The  strangeness  of  your  habits  facili- 
tated mine.  Almost  nightly  I  visited  your  house,  and  though  I 
could  not  but  see  that  the  reserve  of  your  wife  now  rose  into 
something  like  hauteur,  yet  my  infatuation  was  so  great  that  I 
began  to  fancy  this  appearance  to  be  merely  such  a  disguise  as 
Prudence  assumes  in  order  to  conceal  its  weaknesses,  and  dis- 
courage the  invader  whom  it  can  no  longer  baffle.  With  this 
impression  I  hurried  on  to  the  commission  of  an  offence,  the 
results  of  which,  though  they  did  not  quell  my  desires,  had  the 
effect  of  terrifying  them,  for  some  time  at  least,  into  partial 
submission.  Would  to  God,  for  all  our  sakes,  that  their  sub- 
mission had  been  final ! 

"  You  remember  the  ball  at  Mrs.  Delauey's  marriage  ?  1 
waltzed  once  with  your  wife  that  evening.  She  refused  to 
waltz  a  second  time.  The  privileges  of  this  intoxicating  dance 
are  such  as  could  be  afforded  by  no  other  practice  in  social  com- 
munion—  the  lady  still  preserving  the  reputation  of  virtue.  I 
need  not  say  with  what  delight  I  employed  these  privileges. 
The  pressure  of  her  arm  and  waist  maddened  me ;  and  when 
the  hour  grew  late,  and  you  did  not  appear,  Mrs.  Delaney  coun- 
selled me  to  tender  my  carriage  for  ihe  purpose  of  conveying 
her  home.  I  cLd  so ; — it  was  refused :  but,  through  the  urgent 
•uggestions  of  ner  mother,  it  was  finally  accepted.  I  assisted 

10* 


370 

her  to  the  carriage,  immediately  followed,  and  took  my  place 
beside  her.  She  was  evidently  annoyed,  and  drew  herself  up 
with  a  degree  of  lofty  reserve,  which,  under  other  circumstances, 
and  had  I  been  less  excited  than  I  was,  by  the  events  of  the 
evening,  wrould  have  discouraged  my  presumption.  It  did  not. 
I  proceeded  to  renew  those  liberties  which  I  had  taken  during 
the  dance.  I  passed  my  arm  about  her  waist.  She  repulsed 
me  with  indignation,  and  insisted  upon  my  setting  her  down 
where  we  were,  in  the  unfrequented  street,  at  midnight.  This 
I  refused.  She  threatened  me  with  your  anger;  and  when,  still 
deceiving  myself  on  the  subject  of  her  real  feelings,  I  proceed- 
ed to  other  liberties,  she  dashed  her  hand  through  the  windows 
of  the  coach,  and  cried  aloud  for  succor.  This  alarmed  me.  I 
promised  her  forbearance,  and  finally  set  her  down,  very  much 
agitated,  at  the  entrance  of  your  dwelling.  She  refused  rny 
assistance  to  the  house,  but  fell  to  the  ground  before  reaching 
it.  That  night  her  miscarriage  ensued,  and  my  passions  for  a 
season  were  awed  into  inactivity,  if  not  silence. 

"  Still  I  could  not  account  for  her  forbearance  to  reveal  every- 
thing to  you.  You  were  still  kind  and  affectionate  to  me  as 
ever.  I  very  well  knew  that  had  she  disclosed  the  secret,  you 
were  not  the  man  to  submit  to  such  an  indignity  as  that  of  which 
I  had  been  guilty.  It  seems  —  so  I  infer  from  what  you  said 
this  morning — that  you  knew  it  all.  If  you  did,  your  forbear- 
ance was  equally  unexpected  and  merciful.  Believing  that  she 
had  kept  my  secret,  my  next  conclusion  was  inevitable.  'She  is 
not  altogether  insensible  to  the  passion  she  inspires.  Her 
strength  is  in  her  virtues  alone.  Her  sympathies  are  clearly 
mine !'  These  conclusions  emboldened  me.  I  haunted  your 
house  nightly  with  music.  Sheltered  beneath  your  trees,  I 
poured  forth  the  most  plaintive  strains  which  I  could  extort 
from  my  flute.  Passion  increased  the  effect  of  art.  I  strove 
at  no  regular  tunes;  I  played  as  the  mood  prompted;  and  felt 
myself,  not  unfrequently,  weeping  over  my  own  strange  irreg- 
ular melodies. 

"Your  sudden  determination  to  remove  prevented  the  renew- 
al of  my  persecutions.  I  need  not  say  how  miserable  I  was 
made,  and  how  much  I  was  confounded  by  such  a  determination. 
Explained  by  yourself  this  morning,  it  is  now  easily  understood; 


CONFESSION  OF  EDGERTON.  I 

but,  ignorant  then  of  the  discoveries  you  had  made  -  —  ignorant 
of  your  merciful  forbearance  toward  my  unhappy  parents — for 
I  can  regard  your  forbearance  with  respect  to  myself  as  arising 
only  from  your  consideration  of  them  —  it  was  unaccountable 
that  you  should  give  up  the  prospect  of  fortune  and  honors, 
which  success,  in  every  department  of  your  business,  seemed 
certainly  to  secure  you. 

"  The  last  night  —  the  eve  of  your  departure  from  C ,  I 

resumed  my  place  among  the  trees  before  your  dwelling.  Here 
I  played  and  wandered  with  an  eye  ever  fixed  upon  your  win- 
dows. While  I  gazed,  I  caught  the  glimpse  of  a  figure  that 
buried  itself  hurriedly  behind,  the  folds  of  a  curtain.  I  could 
suppose  it  to  be  one  person  only.  I  never  thought  of  you. 
Urged  by  a  feeling  of  desperation,  which  took  little  heed  of  con- 
sequences, I  clambered  up  into  the  branches  of  a  pride  of  India, 
which  brought  me  within  twenty  feet  of  the  window.  I  dis- 
tinctly beheld  the  curtain  ruffled  by  the  sudden  motion  of  some 
one  behind  it.  I  was  about  to  speak — to  say — no  matter  what. 
The  act  would  have  been  madness,  and  such,  doubtless,  would 
have  been  the  language.  I  fortunately  did  not  speak.  A  few 
moments  only  had  elapsed  after  this,  when  I  heard  a  few  brief 
words,  spoken  in  her  voice,  from  the  same  window.  The  words 
were  few,  and  spoken  in  tones  which  denoted  the  great  agitation 
of  the  speaker.  These  apprized  me  of  my  danger. 

" '  Fly,  madman,  for  your  life  !  My  husband  is  on  the  stairs.' 
"  Her  person  was  apparent.  Her  words  could  not  be  mistaken 
though  spoken  in  faint,  feeble  accents.  At  the  same  moment  I 
heard  the  lower  door  of  the  dwelling  unclose,  and  without 
knowing  what  I  did  or  designed,  I  dropped  from  the  tree  to  the 
ground.  To  my  great  relief,  you  did  not  perceive  me.  I  was 
fortunately  close  to  the  fence,  and  in  the  deepest  shadow  of  the 
tree.  You  hurried  by,  within  five  steps  of  me,  and  jumped  the 
fence,  evidently  thinking  to  find  me  in  the  next  enclosure. 
Breathing  freely  and  thankfully  after  this  escape,  I  fled  im- 
mediately to  the  little  boat  in  which  I  usually  made  my  ap- 
proaches to  your  habitation  on  such  occasions ;  and  was  in  the 
middle  of  the  lake,  and  out  ^f  sight,  long  before  you  had  given 
over  your  fruitless  pursuit.  The  next  day  you  left  the  city 
and  I  remained,  the  wasted  and  wasting  monument  of  pas 


372  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

sions  which  had  been  as  profitlessly  as  they  were  criminally 
exercised. 

"  You  were  gone ; — you  had  borne  with  you  the  object  of  my 
devotion ;  but  the  passion  remained  and  burnt  with  no  less 
frenzy  than  before.  You  were  not  blind  to  the  effect  of  this 
frenzy  upon  my  health  and  constitution.  You  saw  that  I  was 
consuming  with  a  nameless  disease.  Perhaps  you  knew  the 
cause  and  the  name,  and  your  departure  may  have  been  prompt- 
ed by  a  sentiment  of  pity  for  myself,  in  addition  to  that  which 
you  felt  for  my  unhappy  parents.  If  this  be  so  —  and  it  seems 
probable — it  adds  something  to  the  agony  of  life— it  will  as- 
sist me  in  the  work  of  atonement  —  it  will  better  reconcile  me 
to  the  momentary  struggle  of  death. 

"  My  ill  health  increased  with  the  absence  of  the  only  object 
for  whom  health  was  now  desirable.  To  see  her  again — to  the 
last — for  I  now  knew  that  that  last  could  not  be  very  remote 
— was  the  great  desire  of  my  mind.  Besides,  strange  to  say,  a 
latent  hope  was  continually  rising  and  trembling  in  my  soul. 
I  still  fancied  that  I  had  a  place  in  the  affections  of  your  wife. 
You  will  naturally  ask  on  what  this  hope  was  founded.  I 
answer,  on  the  supposition  that  she  had  concealed  from  you  the 
truth  on  the  subject  of  my  presumptuous  assault  upon  her ;  and 
on  those  words  of  warning  by  which  she  had  counselled  me  to 
fly  from  your  pursuit  on  that  last  night  before  you  left  the  city. 
These  may  not  be  very  good  reasons  for  such  a  hope,  but  the 
faith  of  the  devotee  needs  but  slight  supply  of  aliment ;  and  the 
fanaticism  of  a  flame  like  mine  needs  even  less.  A  whisper,  a 
look,  a  smile — nay,  even  a  frown — has  many  a  time  prompted 
stronger  convictions  than  this,  in  wiser  heads,  and  firmer  hearts 
than  mine. 

"  My  father  counselled  me  to  travel,  and  I  was  only  too  glad 
to  obey  his  suggestions.  He  prescribed  the  route,  but  I  deceived 
him.  Once  on  the  road,  I  knew  but  one  route  that  could  do  me 
good,  or  at  least  afford  me  pleasure.  I  pursued  the  object  of 
my  long  devotion.  Here  your  conduct  again  led  me  astray.  1 
found  you  still  neglectful  of  your  wife.  Still,  you  received  me 
as  if  I  had  been  a  brother,  and  thus  convinced  me  that  Julia 
had  kept  my  secret.  In  keeping  it  thus  long  I  now  fancied  it 
had  become  hers.  I  renewed  my  devotions,  but  with  as  little 


CONFESSION  OF  EDGERTON.  873 

profit  as  before.  She  maintained  the  most  rigid  distance,  and  I 
grew  nervous  and  feeble  in  consequence  of  the  protracted 
homage  which  I  paid,  and  the  excitement  which  followed  from 
this  homage.  You  had  a  proof  of  this  nervousness  and  excite- 
ment in  the  incident  which  occurred  while  crossing  the  stream 
let.  I  extended  her  my  hand  to  assist  her  over,  and  scarcely 
had  her  fingers  touched  mine,  when  I  felt  a  convulsion,  and 
sunk,  fainting  and  hopelessly  into  the  stream.*  Conscious  of 
nothing  besides,  I  was  yet  conscious  of  her  screams.  This 
tender  interest  in  my  fate  increased  my  madness.  It  led  to  a 
subsequent  exhibition  of  it  which  at  length  fully  opened  my 
eyes  to  the  enormity  of  my  offence. 

"  You  blindly  as  I  then  thought,  took  me  to  your  dwelling  as 
if  I  had  been  a  brother.  Ah  !  why  ?  If  I  was  mad,  Clifford, 
your  madness  was  not  less  than  mine.  It  was  the  blindest 
madness  if  not  the  worst.  The  progress  of  my  insanity  was 
now  more  rapid  than  ever.  I  fancied  that  I  perceived  signs  of 
something  more  than  coldness  between  yourself  and  wife.  I 
fancied  that  you  frowned  upon  her ;  and  in  the  grave,  sad, 
speaking  looks  which  she  addressed  to  you,  1  thought  I  read 
the  language  of  dislike  and  defiance.  My  own  attentions  to 
her  were  redoubled  whenever  an  opportunity  was  afforded  me ; 
but  this  was  not  often.  I  saw  as  little  of  her  while  living  in 
your  cottage  as  I  had  seen  before,  and,  but  for  the  good  old  lady, 
Mrs.  Porterfield,  I  should  probably  have  been  even  less  blessed 
by  her  presence.  She  perceived  my  dullness,  and  feeble  health, 
and  dreaming  no  ill,  insisted  that  your  wife  should  assist  in  be- 
guiling me  of  my  weariness.  She  set  us  down  frequently  at 
chess,  and  loved  to  look  on  and  watch  the  progress  of  the  game, 

"  She  did  not  always  watch,  and  last  night,  while  we  played 
together,  in  a  paroxysm  of  madness,  I  proceeded  to  those  liber- 
ties which  I  suppose  provoked  her  to  make  the  revelation  which 
she  had  so  long  forborne.  My  impious  hands  put  aside  the 
board,  my  arms  encircled  her  waist ;  while,  kneeling  beside  her, 
I  endeavored  to  drag  her  into  my  embrace.  She  repulsed  me  j 
smote  me  to  her  feet  with  her  open  palm ;  and  spurning  me 

*  An  incident  somewhat  similar  to  this  occurs  in  the  Life  of  Petrarch,  as 
given  by  Mrs.  Dobson,  but  the  precise  facts  are  not  remembered,  and  I  hare 
not  the  volume  by  inc. 


374 

where  I  lay  grovelling,  retired  to  her  chamber.  I  know  not  what 
I  said — I  know  not  what  she  answered  —  yet  the  tones  of  her 
voice,  sharp  with  horror  and  indignation,  are  even  now  ringing 
in  my  ears  ! 

"  Clifford,  I  have  finished  this  painful  narration.  I  have  cursed 
your  home  with  bitterness,  yet  I  pray  you  not  to  curse  me  !  Let 
me  implore  you  to  ask  for  merciful  forbearance  from  her,  to 
whom  I  feel  I  have  been  such  a  sore  annoyance  —  too  happy  if  I 
have  not  been  also  a  curse  to  her.  What  I  have  written  is  the 
truth — sadly  felt  —  solemly  spoken  —  God  alone  being  present 
while  I  write,  while  death  lingers  upon  the  threshold  impatient 
till  I  shall  end.  I  leave  a  brief  sentence,  which  you  may  or 
may  not,  deliver  to  your  wife.  You  will  send  the  letter  to  my 
father.  You  will  see  me  buried  in  some  holy  inclosure  ;  and  if 
you  can,  you  will  bury  with  my  unconscious  form,  the  long 
strifes  of  feeling  which  I  have  made  you  endure,  and  the  just 
anger  which  I  have  awakened  in  your  bosom.  Farewell!  —  and 
may  the  presiding  spirit  of  your  home  hereafter,  be  peace  and 
love ! " 


DOUBTS — SUMMONS.  375 


CHAPTER  LI. 

DOUBTS SUMMONS. 

.  THE  billet  which  was  addressed  to  my  wife  was  in  the  following 
language  : — 

"Lady,  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  having  sincerely  repented  of 
the  offense  I  have  given  you,  I  implore  you  to  pity  and  to  pardon. 
A  sense  of  guilt  and  shame  weighs  me  down  to  earth.  You 
can  not  apply  a  harsher  judgment  to  my  conduct  than  I  feel 
it  deserves  ;  but  I  am  crushed  already.  You  will  not  trample  the 
prostrate.  In  a  few  hours  my  body  will  be  buried  in  the  dust. 
My  soul  is  already  there.  But,  though  writhing,  I  do  not  curse  ;  and 
still  loving,  I  yet  repent.  In  my  last  moments  I  implore  you  to  for- 
give !  forgive  !  forgive  ! " 

This  was  all,  and  I  considered  the  two  documents  with  keen 
and  conflicting  feelings.  There  was  an  earnestness— a  sincer- 
ity about  them,  which  I  could  not  altogether  discredit.  He  had 
freely  avowed  his  own  errors ;  but  he  "had  not  spoken  for  hers. 
I  did  not  dare  to  admit  the  impression  which  he  evidently 
wished  to  convey  of  her  entire  innocence,  not  only  from  the 
practices,  but  the  very  thoughts  of  guilt.  It  is  in  compliance 
with  a  point  of  honor  that  the  professed  libertine  yet  endeavors 
to  excuse  and  save  the  partner  of  his  wantonness.  In  this  light 
I  regarded  all  those  parts  of  his  narrative  which  went  to  exten- 
uate her  conduct.  There  was  one  part  of  her  conduct,  indeed, 
which,  as  it  exceeded  his  ability  to  account  for,  was  beyond  his 
ability  to  excuse — namely,  her  strange  concealment  of  his  in- 
solence. This  was  the  grand  fault  which,  it  appeared  to  me,  was 
conclusive  of  all  the  rest.  It  was  now  my  policy  to  believe  in  this 
fault  wholly.  If  I  did  not,  where  was  I  ?  what  was  my  condition  ? 
— my  misery  ? 

I  sat  brooding,  with  these  documents  open  before  me  on  the 
table,  when  Kingsley  tapped  at  the  door,  I  bade  him  enter, 


£76  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

«LX  a  put  the  papers  in  his  hands.  He  read  them  in  silence,  laid 
them  down  without  a  word,  and  looked  me  with  a  grave  com- 
9osure  in  the  face. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  I  demanded. 

"  That  he  speaks  the  truth/'  he  replied. 

"  Yes,  no  doubt  —  so  far  as  he  himself  is  concerned." 

"  I  should  think  it  all  true." 

"  Indeed !     I  think  not." 

"  Why  do  you  doubt,  and  what  ?" 

"  I  doubt  those  portions  in  which  he  insists  upon  my  wife's 
integrity." 

"  Wherefore  ?" 

"  There  are  many  reasons ;  the  principal  of  which  is  her  sin- 
gular concealment  of  the  truth.  She  suffers  a  strange  man  to 
offend  her  virtue  with  the  most  atrocious  familiarities,  and  says 
nothing  to  her  husband,  who,  alone,  could  have  redressed  the 
wrong  and  remedied  the  impertinence." 

"  That  certainly  is  a  staggering  fact." 

"  According  to  his  own  admission,  she  warns  him  to  fly  from 
the  wrath  of  her  husband,  to  which  his  audacity  had  exposed 
him — warns  him,  in  her  night-dresB,  and  from  the  window  of 
her  chamber." 

"  True,  true  !  I  had  forgotten  that." 

"  Look  at  all  tue  circumstances.  He  haunts  the  house — ac- 
cording to  his  own  showing,  persecutes  her  with  attentions, 
which  are  so  marked,  that,  when  he  finds  her  husband  ignorant 
of  them,  leads  him  to  the  conclusion — which  is  natural — that 
they  are  not  displeasing  to  the  wife.  He  avails  himself  of  the 
privileges  of  the  waltz,  at  the  marriage  of  Mrs.  Delaney,  to 
gratify  his  lustful  anticipations.  He  presses  her  arm  and  waist 

with  his  d d  fingers.  Hides  home  with  her,  and,  according 

to  his  story,  takes  othei«4iberties,  which  she  baflles  and  sets 
aside.  But,  mark  the  truth.  Though  she  requires  him  to  set 
her  down  in  the  street  —  though  she  makes  terms  for  his  for- 
bearance—  a  wife  making  terms  with  a  libertine — yet  he  evi- 
dently sees  her  into  the  house,  and  when  she  is  taken  sick,  hur- 
ries for  the  mother  and  the  physician.  He  tells  just  enough  of 
the  story  to  convict  himself,  but  suppresses  everything  which 
may  convict  her.  How  know  I  that  this  resistance  in  the  car- 


DOUBTS  —  SUMMONS.  BT7 

riage  was  more  than  a  sham  ?  How  know  I  that  he  did  not 
attend  her  in  the  house  1  That  they  did  not  dabble  together 
on  their  way  through  the  dark  piazza — along  the  stairs'?  — 
Nay,  what  proof  is  there  that  he  did  not  find  his  way,  with  pol- 
luting purpose,  into  the  very  chamber? — that  chamber,  from 
which,  not  three  weeks  after,  she  bade  him  fly  to  avoid  my 
wrath!  What  makes  her  so  precious  of  his  life — the  life  of 
one  who  pursues  her  with  lust  and  dishonor — if  she  does  not 
burn  with  like  passions  ?  But  there  is  more." 

Here  I  told  him  of  the  letter  of  Mrs.  Delaney,  in  which  that 
permanent  beldame  counsels  her  daughter,  less  against  the  pas- 
sion itself,  than  against  the  imprudent  exhibition  of  it.  It  was 
clear  that  the  mother  had  seen  what  had  escaped  my  eyes.  It  was 
clear  that  the  mother  was  convinced  of  the  attachment  of  the 
daughter  for  this  man.  Now,  the  attachment  being  shown,  what 
followed  from  the  concealment  of  the  indignities  to  which  Ed- 
gerton  had  subjected  her,  but  that  she  was  pleased  with  them, 
and  did  not  feel  them  to  be  such.  These  indignities  are  perse- 
vered in — are  frequently  repeated.  Our  footsteps  are  followed 
from  one  country  to  another.  The  husband's  hours  of  absence 
are  noted.  His  departure  is  the  invariable  signal  for  them  to 
meet.  They  meet.  His  hands  paddle  with  hers;  his  arms 
grasp  her  waist.  True,  we  are  told  by  him,  that  she  resists ; 
but  it  is  natural  that  he  should  make  this  declaration.  Its  truth 
is  combated  by  the  fact  that,  of  these  insults,  she  says  nothing. 
That  fact  is  everything.  That  one  fact  involves  all  the  rest. 
The  woman  who  conceals  such  a  history,  shares  in  ita  guilt. 

Kingsley  assented  to  these  conclusions. 

"  Yet,"  he  said,  "  there  is  an  air  of  truthfulness  about  these 
papers  —  this  narrative  —  that  I  should  be  pleased  to  believe, 
even  if  I  could  not ;  —  that  I  should  believe  for  your  sake,  Clif- 
ford, if  for  no  other  reason.  Honestly,  after  all  you  have  said 
and  shown  —  with  all  the  unexplained  and  perhaps  unexplaina- 
ble  particulars  before  me,  making  the  appearances  so  much 
against  her  —  I  can  not  think  your  wife  guilty.  I  should  be 
sorry  to  think  so." 

"  I  should  now  be  sorry  to  think  otherwise,"  I  said  huskily, 
I  thought  of  that  poisonous  draught.  I  thought  with  many  mis- 
givings, and  trembled  where  I  sat. 


9'78  CONFESSION,   OB  THE   BLIND  HEART. 

"  You  surprise  me  to  hear  you  speak  so.  Surely,  Clifford, 
>ou  love  your  wife  1" 

"  Love  her  S"  I  exclaimed  ;  I  could  say  no  more.  My  sob* 
choked  my  utterance. 

"  Nay,  do  not  give  up,"  he  said  tenderly.  "  Be  a  man.  All 
will  go  well  yet.  The  facts  are  anything  but  conclusive.  These 
papers  have  a  realness  about  them,  which  have  their  weight 
against  any  suspicions,  however  strong.  Remember,  these  are 
the  declarations  of  a  dying  man !  Surely,  all  minor  considera- 
tions of  policy  would  give  way  at  such  a  moment  to  the  all-im 
portant  necessity  of  speaking  the  truth.  Besides,  there  is  one 
consideration  alone,  to  which  we  have  made  no  reference,  which 
yet  seems  to  me  full  of  weight  and  value.  Edgerton  could 
scarcely  have  been  successful  in  his  designs  upon  your  wife. 
He  was  in  fact  dying  of  the  disappointment  of  his  passions. 
They  could  not  have  been  gratified.  Success  takes  an  exulting 
aspect.  He  was  always  miserable  and  wo-begone  —  always  de- 
sponding, sad,  unhappy,  from  the  first  moment  when  this  pas- 
sion began,  to  the  last." 

"  Guilt,  guilt,  nothing  but  guilt !" 

"No,  Clifford,  no!  —  The  guilt  that  works  so  terribly  upon 
conscience  as  to  produce  such  effects  upon  the  frame,  inevitably 
leads  to  repentance.  Now,  we  find  that  Edgerton  pursued  his 
object  until  he  was  detected." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Do  not  steel  yourself  against  probabilities,  my  dear  fellow," 
said  Kingsley. 

"  Proofs  against  probabilities  always !" 

"  No !  none  of  these  are  proofs  except  the  papers  you  have 
in  your  hands,  and  the  imperfect  events  which  you  witnessed. 
I  am  so  much  an  admirer  of  your  wife  myself,  that  I  am  ready 
to  believe  this  statement  against  the  rest ;  and  to  believe  that, 
however  strange  may  have  been  her  conduct  in  some  respects, 
it  will  yet  be  explained  in  a  manner  which  shall  acquit  her  of 
misconduct.  Believe  me,  Clifford,  think  with  me " 

"  No  !  no  !     I  can  not — dare  not !     She  is  a—" 

"  Do  not !  Do  not  f  No  harsh  words,  even  were  it  so  !  She 
has  been  your  wife.  She  should  still  be  sacred  in  your  eyes, 
as  one  who  has  slept  upon  your  bosom." 


DOUBTS — SUMMONS.  379 

"A  traitress  all  the  while,  dreaming  of  the  embraces  of  an- 
other." 

"Clifford,  what  can  this  mean?  You  are  singularly  invet- 
erate." 

"Should  I  not  be  so?  Am  I  not  lost — abandoned — wrecked  on 
the  high  seas  of  my  hope — my  fortunes  scattered  to  the  winds — my 
wealth,  the  jewel  which  I  prized  beyond  all  beside,  which  was  worth 
the  whole,  gone  down,  swallowed  up,  and  the  black  abyss  closed 
over  it  for  ever? " 

"  We  are  not  sure  of  this/' 

"I  am!" 

"No!  no!" 

"  I  am!  Though  she  be  innocent,  who  shall  rid  me  of  the  doubt, 
the  fear,  the  ineradicable  suspicion!  That  blackens  all  my  sunlight; 
that  poisons  all  my  peace.  I  can  never  know  delight.  Nay,  though 
you  proved  her  innocent,  it  is  now  too  late.  Kingsley,  by  this  time 
I  have  no  wife!" 

"Ha!    Surely,  Clifford,  you  have  not " 

"Hark!  Some  one  knocks!  Again! — again! — I  understand  it. 
I  know  what  it  means.  They  are  looking  for  me.  She  is  dead  or 
dying.  I  tell  you  it  is  quite  in  vain  that  you  should  argue.  Above 
all,  do  not  seek  to  prove  her  innocent." 

The  knocking  without  increased.  He  seized  my  arm  as  I  was 
going  forward,  and  prevented  me. 

"Compose  yourself,"  he  said,  thrusting  me  into  a  chair.  "  lie- 
main  here  till  I  return.  I  will  see  what  is  wanted." 

But  I  followed  him,  and  reached  the  door  almost  as  soon  as  him- 
self. It  was  as  I  expected.  I  had  been  sent  for.  My  wife  was 
dangerously  ill.  Such  was  the  tenor  of  the  message.  More  I  could 
not  learn.  The  servant  had  been  an  hour  in  search  of  me.  Had 
sought  me  at  the  office  and  in  other  places  which  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  frequent;  and  I  felt  that  after  so  long  a  delay,  there  was  no 
longer  need  for  haste.  Still,  I  was  about  to  depart  with  hasty  foot- 
steps. The  servant  was  already  dismissed.  Kingsley  grasped  my 
arm. 

"  I  will  go  along  with  you."  he  said;  and  as  we  went,  he  spoke,  in 
low  accents,  to  the  following  effect: — 

"I  know  not  what  you  have  done,  Clifford;  and  there  is  no 
need  that  I  should  know.  Keep  your  secret,  I  do  not  think 


380  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

the  worse  of  you  that  you  have  been  maddened  to  crime.  Let 
the  same  desperation  nerve  you  now  to  sufficient  composure. 
Beware  of  what  you  say,  lest  these  people  suspect  you." 

"  And  what  if  they  do  1  Think  you,  Kingsley,  that  I  fear  ? 
No !  no !  Life  has  nothing  now.  I  lost  fear,  and  hope,  and 
everything  in  her." 

"  But  may  she  not  live  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  not ;  the  poison  is  most  deadly.  Though,  even 
if  she  lives,  my  loss  would  not  he  less.  She  ceased  to  live  fsr 
me  the  moment  that  she  began  to  live  for  another  I" 


DEATH.  381 


CHAPTEE    LII. 

DEATH. 

NOTHING  more  was  said  until  we  reached  the  cottage.  Mrs.  Por- 
terfield  and  the  physician  met  us  at  the  entrance.  We  had  corne  too 
late! 

She  was  dead.  They  had  found  her  so  when  they  despatched  the 
servant  in  quest  of  me;  but  they  were  not  certain  of  the  fact,  and  the 
servant  was  instructed  to  say  she  was  only  very  ill.  The  physician 
was  called  in  as  soon  as  possible ;  but  had  declared  himself,  as  soon  as 
he  came,  unable  to  do  anything  for  her.  He  had  bled  her; 
and,  before  our  arrival,  had  already  pronounced  upon  her  disease. 
It  was  apoplexy! 

"Apoplexy!"  I  exclaimed,  involuntarily.  Kingsley  gave  me  a 
look. 

"Yes,  sir,  apoplexy,"  continued  the  learned  gentleman.  "She 
must  have  had  several  fits.  It  is  evident  that  she  was  conscious  after 
the  first,  for  she  appears  to  have  endeavored  to  reach  the  door.  She 
was  found  at  the  entrance,  lying  upon  the  floor.  When  I  saw  her, 
she  must  have  been  lifeless  a  good  hour."  * 

He  added  sundry  reasons,  derived  from  her  appearance,  which 
he  assured  us  were  conclusive  on  this  subject;  but  to  these  I 
gave  little  heed.  I  did  not  stop  to  listen.  I  hurried  to  the 
chamber,  closed  the  door,  and  was  alone  with  my  victim,  with 
my  wife! 

My  victim! — my  wife  I 

*  The  reader  will  be  reminded  of  the  melancholy  details  in  the  case  of 
Miss  Landon— L.  E.  L.— whose  fate  is  still  a  mystery. 


882  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND  HEAHT. 

I  stood  above  her  inanimate  form.  How  lovely  in  death — 
but,  oh  !  how  cold  !  I  looked  upon  her  pale,  transparent  cheeks 
and  forehead,  through  which  the  blue  lines  of  veins,  that  were 
pulseless  now,  gleamed  out,  showing  the  former  avenues  of  the 
sweet  and  blessed  life.  I  was  disarmed  of  my  anger  while  I 
gazed.  I  bent  down  beside  her,  took  the  rigid  fingers  of  her 
hand  in  mine,  and  pressed  [my  lips  upon  the  bloodless  but  still 
beautiful  forms  of  hers. 

I  remembered  her  youth  and  her  beauty — the  glowing  prom- 
ise of  her  mind,  and  the  gentle  temper  of  her  heart.  I  remem- 
bered the  dear  hours  of  our  first  communion — how  pure  were 
our  delights — how  perfect  my  felicity.  How  we  moved  to- 
gether as  with  one  being  only — beside  the  broad  streams  of  our 
birthplace — under  the  shelter  of  shady  pines — morning,  and  noon, 
and  in  the  star-lighted  night — never  once  dreaming  that  an  hour 
like  this  would  come! 

And  she  seemed  so  perfect  pure,  as  she  was  so  perfect  lovely! 
Never  did  I  hear  from  her  lips  sentiment  that  was  not — not 
only  virtuous,  but  delicate  and  soft — not  only  innocent  but  true 
— not  only  true  but  fond!  Alas!  so  to  fall — so  too  yield  her- 
self at  last!  To  feel  the  growth  of  rank  passions — to  surren- 
der her  pure  soul  and  perfect  form  to  the  base  uses  of  lust — to 
be  no  better  than  the  silly  harlot,  that,  beguiled  by  her  eager 
vanity,  surrenders  the  precious  jewel  in  her  trust,  to  the  first 
cunning  sharper  that  assails  her  with  a  smiling  lie! 

Oh  God!  how  these  convictions  shook  my  frame!  I  had  no 
longer  strength  for  thought  or  action.  I  was  feebler  than  the 
child,  who,  lost  in  the  woods,  struggles  and  sinks  at  last,  through 
sheer  exhaustion,  into  sobbing  slumber  at  the  foot  of  the  unfeel- 
ing tree.  I  did  not  sob.  I  had  no  tears.  But  at  intervals, 
the  powers  of  breathing  becoming  choked,  and  my  struggles  for 
relief  were  expressed  in  a  groan  which  I  vainly  endeavored  to 
keep  down.  The  sense  of  desolation  was  upon  me  much  more 
strongly  than  that  of  either  crime  or  death.  I  did  not  so  much 
feel  that  she  was  guilty,  as  that  I  was  alone!  That,  henceforth, 
I  must  for  ever  be  alone.  This  was  the  terrible  conviction; — 
and  oh!  how  lone!  To  lessen  its  pangs,  I  strove  to  recall  the 
fault  for  which  she  perished — to  renew  the  recollection  of  those 
thousand  small  events,  which,  thrown  together,  had  seemed  to 


DEATH  383 

me  mountains  of  rank  and  reeking  evidence  against  her.  But 
even  my  memory  failed  me  in  this  effort.  All  this  was  a  blank. 
The  few  imperfect  and  shadowy  facts  whch  I  could  recall  seem- 
ed to  me  wholly  unimportant  in  establishing  the  truth  of  what 
I  sought  to  believe;  and  I  shuddered  with  the  horrible  doubt 
that  she  might  be  innocent !  If  she  were  indeed  innocent, 
what  am  I  ? 

With  the  desperate  earnestness  of  the  cast-away,  who  strives, 
in  mid-ocean,  for  the  only  plank  which  can  possibly  retard  his 
doom,  did  I  toil  to  re-establish  in  my  mind  that  conviction  of  her 
guilt  which  the  demon  in  my  soul  had  made  so  certain  by  his 
assurances  before.  Alas  !  I  had  not  only  lost  the  wife  of  my 
bosom,  but  its  fiend  also.  Vainly  nowr  did  I  seek  to  summon 
him  back.  Vainly  did  I  call  upon  him  to  renew  his  arguments 
and  proofs!  He  had  fled — fled  for  ever ;  and  I  could  fancy 
that  I  heard  him  afar  off,  chuckling  with  hellish  laughter,  over 
the  triumphant  results  of  his  malice. 

I  know  not  how  long  I  hung  over  that  silent  speaker.  Her 
pale,  placid  countenance  —  her  bloodless  lips,  that  still  seemed 
to  smile  upon  me  as  they  had  ever  done  before ;  —  and  that 
eye  of  speaking  beauty  —  only  half  closed  —  oh  !  what  conclu- 
sive assurances  did  they  seem  to  give  of  that  innocence  which 
it  now  seemed  the  worst  impiety  to  doubt !  I  would  have  given 
worlds — alas  !  how  impotent  is  such  a  speech  !  Death  sets  his  seal 
upon  hope,  and  love,  and  endeavor ;  and  the  regrets  of  that  child- 
ish precipitation  which  has  obeyed  the  laws  of  passion  only,  are 
only  so  many  mocking  memorials  of  the  blind  heart,  that  jaundiced 
the  face  of  truth,  and  distorted  all  the  aspects  of  the  beautiful. 

Once  more  I  laughed  —  a  vain  hysterical  laugh — the  ex- 
pression of  my  conviction  that  I  was  self -doomed  and  desperate ; 
and,  writhing  beside  the  inanimate  angel  whom  I  then  would 
have  recalled  though  with  all  her  guilt  —  assuming  all  of  it  to 
have  been  true — to  the  arms  that  wantonly  cast  her  off  for  ever 
—  I  grasped  the  cold  senseless  limbs  in  my  embrace,  and  placed 
the  drooping  head  once  more  upon  the  bosom  where  it  could  not 
long  remain !  What  a  weight !  The  pulsation  in  my  own 
heart  ceased,  and,  with  a  shudder,  I  released  the  chilling  form 
from  my  grasp,  and  found  strength  barely  to  compose  the  limbs 
once  more  in  the  bed  beside  me. 


384  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

I  pass  over  the  usual  and  unnecessary  details.  There  was  ft 
show  of  inquiry  of  course ;  but  the  one  word  of  the  learned 
young  gentleman  in  black  silenced  any  further  examination.  It 
was  shown  to  the  mquest  by  Mrs.  Porterfield  that  my  wife  had 
been  sick  —  that  she  was  suddenly  found  dead.  The  physician 
nirnishcd  the  next  necessary  fact.  I  was  not  examined  at  all, 
I  stAod  by  in  silence.  I  heard  the  verdict — "Death  by  apo- 
plexy"- -with  a  smile.  I  was  not  unwilling  to  state  the  truth. 
Had  I  been  called  upon  I  should  have  done  so.  At  first  I  was 
about  to  proffer  my  testimony,  but  a  single  sentence  from  the 
lips  of  Kingsley,  when  I  declared  to  him  my  purpose,  silenced 
me : — 

"  If  you  are  not  afraid  to  declare  your  own  act,  you  should 
at  least  scruple  to  denounce  her  shame !  She  died  your  wife. 
Let.  that  seal  your  tongue.  The  shame  would  be  shared  be- 
tween you !  Tov  could  only  justify  your  crime  by  exposing 
kers !" 

With  the  stern  strength  of  desperation  I  stood  above  the 
grave,  and  heard  the  heavy  clod  ring  hollowly  upon  the  coffin. 
And  there  closed  two  lives  in  one.  My  hopes  were  buried 
there  as  effectually  as  her  unconscious  form. 

Life  is  not  breath  simply.  Not  the  capacity  to  move,  and 
breathe,  to  act,  eat,  drink,  sleep,  and  say,  "  Thank  God !  we 
have  ate,  drank,  and  slept !"  The  life  of  humanity  consists  in 
hope,  love,  and  labor.  In  the  capacity  to  desire,  to  affect,  ant 
to  struggle.  I  had  now  nothing  for  Trhich  I  could  hope,  nothing 
to  love,  nothing  to  struggle  for  ! 

Yes  !  life  has  something  more  : — endurance !  This  is  a  par! 
of  the  allotment.  The  conviction  of  this  renewed  my  strength 
But  it  was  the  strength  of  desolation !  I  had  taken  courage 
from  despair ! 


BEVELATIOX— THE  LETTER  OF  JULIA.  385 


CHAPTEK  LIII. 

REVELATION — THE  LETTER  OF  JULIA. 

IT  must  be  remembered,  that,  in  all  this  time — amidst  all 
my  agonies  —  my  feelings  of  destitution  and  despair  —  I  had 
few  or  no  doubts  of  the  guilt  of  Julia  Clifford.  My  sufferings 
arose  from  the  love  which  I  had  felt  —  the  defeat  of  my  hopes 
and  fortune  —  the  long  struggle  of  conflicting  feelings,  mortified 
pride,  and  disappointed  enjoyment.  Excited  by  the  melancholy 
spectacle  before  me  —  beholding  the  form  of  her,  once  so  beauti- 
ful—  still  so  beautiful  —  whom  I  had  loved  with  such  an  absorb- 
ing passion — whom  I  could  not  cease  to  love  —  suddenly  cut 
off  from  life  —  her  voice,  which  was  so  musical,  suddenly  hushed 
for  ever  —  the  tides  of  her  heart  suddenly  stopped  —  and  all  the 
sweet  waters  of  hope  dried  up  in  her .  bosom,  and  turned  into 
bitterness  and  blight  in  mine  —  the  force  of  my  feelings  got  the 
better  of  my  reason,  and  cruel  and  oppressive  doubts  of  the 
justness  of  her  doom  overpowered  my  soul.  But,  with  the 
subsiding  of  my  emotions,  under  the  stern  feeling  of  resolve 
which  came  to  my  relief,  and  which  my  course  of  education  en- 
abled me  to  maintain,  my  persuasions  of  her  guilt  were  resumed, 
and  I  naturally  recurred  to  the  conclusions  which  had  originally 
justified  me  to  myself,  in  inflicting  the  awful  punishment  of 
death  upon  her.  But  I  was  soon  to  be  deprived  of  this  justi- 
fication— to  be  subjected  to  the  terrible  recoil  of  all  my  feelings 
of  justice,  love,  honor  and  manliness,  in  the  new  and  over- 
whelming conviction,  not  only  that  I  had  been  premature,  but 
that  she  was  innocent !  —  innocent,  equally  of  thought  and  deed, 
which  could  incur  the  reproach  of  impurity,  or  the  punishment 
of  guilt. 

17 


3tb  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

Three  days  had  elapsed  after  her  burial,  when  I  re-opened 
and  re-appeared  in  my  office.  I  did  not  re-open  it  with  any  in- 
tention to  resume  my  business.  That  was  impossible  in  a  place, 
where,  at  every  movement,  the  grave  of  my  victim  rose,  always 
green,  in  my  sight.  My  purpose  was  to  put  my  papers  in  order, 
transfer  them  to  other  parties,  dispose  of  my  effects,  and  depart 
with  Kiwgsley  to  the  new  countries,  of  which  he  had  succeeded 
in  impressing  upon  me  some  of  his  own  opinions.  Not  that 
these  furnished  for  me  any  attractions.  I  was  not  persuaded  by 
any  customary  arguments  held  out  to  the  ambitious  and  the 
enterprising.  It  was  a  matter  of  small  moment  to  me  where  I 
went,  so  that  I  left  the  present  scene  of  my  misery  and  over- 
throw. In  determining  to  accompany  him  to  Texas,  no  part  of 
my  resolve  was  influenced  by  the  richness  of  its  soil,  or  the 
greatness  of  its  probable  destinies.  These,  though  important 
in  the  eyes  of  my  friend,  were  as  nothing  in  mine.  ID  taking 
that  route  my  object  was  simply,  to  go  with  him.  He  had 
sympathized  with  me,  after  a  rough  fashion  of  his  own,  the  sin- 
cerity of  which  was  more,  dear  to  me  than  the  rougbress  was 
repulsive.  He  had  witnessed  my  cares — he  knew  rcy  guilt 
and  my  griefs  —  this  knowledge  endeared  him  to  me  more 
strongly  than  ever,  and  made  him  now  more  necessary  to  my 
affections  than  any  other  living  object. 

I  re-opened  my  office  and  resumed  my  customary  seat  at  the 
table.  But  I  sat  only  to  ruminate  upon  things  and  thoughts 
which,  following  the  track  of  memory,  diverted  my  sight  as  well 
as  my  mind,  from  all  present  objects.  I  saw  nothing  before  me, 
except  vaguely,  and  in  a  sort  of  shadow.  I  had  a  hazy  outline 
of  books  against  the  wall ;  and  a  glimmering  show  of  papers 
and  bundles  upon  the  table.  I  sat  thus  for  some  time,  lost  in 
painful  and  humiliating  revery.  Suddenly  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  packet  on  the  table,  which  I  did  not  recollect  to  have  seen 
before.  It  bore  my  name.  I  shuddered  to  behold  it,  for  it  was 
in  the  handwriting  of  my  wife.  This,  then,  was  the  writing 
upon  which  she  had  been  secretly  engaged,  for  so  many  days, 
and  of  which  Mrs.  Porterfield  had  given  me  the  first  intimation. 
I  remembered  the  words  of  Julia  when  she  assured  me  that  it 
was  intended  for  me  —  when  she  playfully  challenged  my  cnri- 
esity,  and  implored  me  to  acknowledge  an  anxiety  to  know  *lie 


REVELATION — THE    LETTEK   OF  JULIA.  38 Y 

contents.  The  pleading  tenderness  of  her  speech  and  manner 
now  rose  vividly  to  my  recollection.  It  touched  me  more  now 
—now  that  the  irrevocable  step  had  been  taken— far  more  than 
it  ever  could  have  affected  me  then.  Then,  indeed,  I  remained 
unaffected  save  by  the  caprice  of  .my  evil  genius.  The  demon 
of  "the  blind  heart  was  then  uppermost.  In  vain  now  did  I  sum- 
mon him  to  my  relief.  Where  was  he  ?  Why  did  he  not  come  ? 

I  took  up  the  packet  with  trembling  fingers.  My  nerves 
almost  failed  me.  My  heart  shrank  and  sank  with  painful  pre- 
sentiments. What  could  this  writing  mean  ?  Of  what  had 
Julia  Clifford  to  write  ?  Her  whole  world's  experience  was  con- 
tained, and  acquired,  in  my  household.  The  only  portion  of 
this  experience  which  she  might  suppose  unknown  to  me  was 
her  intercourse  with  Edgerton.  The  conclusion,  then,  was 
natural  that  this  writing  related  to  this  matter;  but,  if  natural, 
why  had  I  not  conjectured  it  before?  Why,  when  I  first  heard 
of  it,  had  the  conclusion  not  forced  itself  upon  me  as  directly  as 
it  did  now?  Alas!  it  was  clear  to  me  now  that  I  was  then 
blind ;  and,  with  this  clearness  of  sight,  my  doubts  increased ; 
but  they  were  doubts  of  myself,  rather  than  doubts  of  her. 

It  required  an  effort  before  I  could  recover  myself  sufficiently 
to  break  the  seal  of  the  packet.  First,  however,  I  rose  and  re- 
closed  the  office.  Whatever  might  be  the  contents  of  the  paper, 
to  me  it  was  the  language  of  a  voice  -  from  the  grave.  It  con- 
tained the  last  words  of  one  I  never  more  should  hear.  The 
words  of  one  whom  I  had  loved  as  I  could  never  love  again. 
It  was  due  to  her,  and  to  my  own  heart,  that  she  should  be 
heard  in  secret;— that  her  words— whether  in  reproach  or  re- 
pentence  —  whether  in  love  or  scorn — should  fall  upon  mine 
ear  without  witness,  in  a  silence  as  solemn  as  was  that  desolate 
feeling  which  now  sat,  like  a  spectre,  brooding  among  the  ruins 
of  my  heart. 

My  pulses  almost  ceased  to  beat— my  respiration  was  impeded 
— my  eyes  swam — my  senses  reeled  in  dismay  and  confusion 
—as  I  read  the  following  epistle.  Too  late  1  too  late  1  Blind, 
blind  heart !  And  still  I  was  not  mad !— No  !  no !— that  would 
have  been  a  mercy  which  I  did  not  merit ! — that  would  have 
been  forgetfulness — utter  oblivion  of  the  woe  which  I  can  never 
cease  to  feel. 


388  CONFESSION,  OK  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

THE  LAST  LETTER  OP  JULIA. 

c '  HUSBAND,  DEAR  HUSBAND  ! 

"  I  write  to  you  in  fear  and  trembling.  I  have  striven  to 
speak  to  you,  more  than  once,  but  my  tongue  and  strength  have 
failed  me.  What  I  have  to  tell  you  is  so  strange  and  offensive, 
and  will  be  to  you  so  startling,  that  you  will  find  it  hard  to 
believe  me ;  and  yet,  dear  husband,  there  is  not  a  syllable  of  it 
which  is  not  true  !  If  I  knew  that  I  were  to  die  to-morrow  I 
could  with  perfect  safety  and  confidence  make  the  same  confes- 
sion which  I  make  now.  But  I  do  not  wish  you  to  take  what  I 
say  on  trust ;  look  into  the  matter  yourself — not  precipitately 
— above  all,  not  angrily — and  you  will  see  that  I  say  nothing 
here  which  the  circumstances  will  not  prove.  Indeed,  my 
wonder  is  that  so  much  of  it  has  remained  unknown  to 
you  already. 

"Husband,  Mr.  Egerton  deceives  you — he  has  all  along  de- 
ceived you — he  is  neither  your  friend  nor  mine.  I  would  call 
him  rather  the  most  dangerous  enemy;  for  he  comes  by  stealth, 
and  abuses  confidence,  and,  like  the  snake  in  the  fable,  seeks  to 
sting  the  very  hand  that  has  warmed  him.  I  know  how  much 
this  will  startle  you,  for  I  know  how  much  you  think  of  him,  and 
love  him,  and  how  many  are  the  obligations  which  you  owe  to  his 
father.  But  hear  me  to  the  end,  and  you  will  be  convinced,  as 
I  have  been,  that,  so  far  from  your  seeking  his  society  and  per- 
mitting his  intimacy  in  our  household,  you  would  be  justified  in 
the  adoption  of  very  harsh  measures  for  his  expulsion — at  least,  it 
would  become  your  duty  to  inform  him  that  you  can  no  longer  suffer 
his  visits. 

"To  begin,  then,  dear  husband,  Mr.  Egerton  has  been  bold 
enough  to  speak  to  me  in  such  language,  as  was  insulting  in 
him  to  utter,  and  equally  painful  and  humiliating  for  me  to  hear. 
He  has  done  this,  not  once,  nor  twice,  nor  thrice,  but  many 
times.  You  will  ask  why  I  have  not  informed  you  of  this  be- 
fore ;  but  I  had  several  reasons  for  forbearing  to  do  so,  -which  I 
will  relate  in  the  proper  places.  I  fancied  that  I  could  effectu- 
ally repel  insult  of  this  sort  without  making  you  a  party  to  it, 
for  I  feared  the  violence  of  your  temper,  and  dreaded  that  the 
consequences  might  be  bloodshed.  I  am  only  prompted  to  take 


REVELATION — THE   LETTER  OF  JTJLIA.  389 

a  different  course  now,  as  I  'find  that  I  was  mistaken  in  this  impres- 
sion —  and  perceive  that  there  is  no  hope  of  a  remedy  against  the 
impertinence  but  by  appealing  to  you  for  protection. 

"It  was  not  long  after  our  marriage  before  the  attentions  of 
Mr.  Edgerton  became  so  particular  as  to  annoy  me ;  and  I  con- 
sulted my  mother  on  the  subject,  but  she  assured  me  that  such 
were  customary,  and  so  long  as  you  were  satisfied  I  had  no 
reason  to  be  otherwise.  I  was  not  quite  content  with  this  assur- 
ance, but  did  not  know  what  other  course  to  take,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  the  conduct  of  Mr.  Edgerton  so  very  marked 
and  offensive  as  to  justify  me  in  making  any  communication  to 
you.  What  offended  me  in  his  bearing  was  his  fixed  and  con- 
tinued watchfulness — the  great  earnestness  of  his  looks — the 
subdued  tones  of  his  voice  when  he  spoke  to  me,  almost  falling 
to  a  whisper,  and  the  unusual  style  of  his  language,  which 
seemed  to  address  itself  to  such  feelings  only  as  do  not  belong 
to  the  common  topics  of  discourse.  The  frequency  of  his  visits 
to  the  studio  afforded  him  opportunities  for  indulging  in  these 
practices ;  and  your  strange  indifference  to  his  approaches,  and 
your  equally  strange  and  most  unkind  abandonment  of  my  society 
for  that  of  others,  increased  these  opportunities,  of  which  he 
scrupled  not  to  take  constant  advantage.  I  soon  perceived 
that  he  sought  the  house  only  at  the-  periods  when  you  were 
absent.  He  seemed  alwaj^s  to  know  when  this  was  the  case ; 
and  Ir  noted  the  fact,  particularly,  that,  if«  on  such  occasions,  you 
happened  to  arrive  unexpectedly  he  never  remained  long  after- 
ward, but  took  his  departure  with  an  abruptness  that,  it  seemed 
wonderful  to  me  you  should  not  have  perceived.  Conduct  so 
strange  as  this  annoyed  rather  than  alarmed  me ;  and  it  made 
me  feel  wretched,  perhaps  beyond  any  necessity  for  it,  when  I 
found  myself  delivered  up,  as  it  were,  to  such  persecution,  by 
the  very  person  whose  duty  it  was  to  preserve  me,  and  whose 
own  presence,  which  would  have  been  an  effectual  protection, 
was  so  dear  to  me  always.  Do  not  suppose,  dear  Edward,  that 
I  mean  to  reproach  you.  I  do  not  know  what  may  have  been 
your  duties  abroad,  and  the  trials  which  drew  you  so  much 
from  home,  and  from  the  eyes  of  a  wife  who  knows  no  dearer 
object  of  contemplation  than  the  form  of  her  husband.  Men 
in  business,  I  know,  have  a  thousand  troubles  out  of  doors, 


390  CONFESSION,  OK  THE  BLIND  HEART. 

which  a  generous  sensibility  makes  them  studious  never  to  bring 
home  with  them ;  and,  knowing  this,  I  determined  to  think 
lovingly  of  you  always —  to  believe  anything  rather  than  that 
you  would  willingly  neglect  me;— and,  by  the  careful  exercise 
of  my  thoughts  and  affections,  as  they  should  properly  be  exercised, 
so  to  protect  my  own  dignity  and  your  honor,  as  to  spare  you  any 
trouble  or  risk  in  asserting  them,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  save  both 
from  reproach. 

"  But,  though  I  think  I  maintained  the  most  rigid  reserve,  as 
well  of  looks  as  of  language,  this  unhappy  young  man  con- 
tinued his  persecutions.  In  order  to  avoid  him,  I  abandoned 
my  usual  labors  in  the  studio.  From  the  moment  when  I  saw 
that  he  was  disposed  to  abuse  the  privileges  of  friendship,  I 
yielded  that  apartment  entirely  to  him,  and  invariably  declined 
seeing  him  when  he  visited  the  house  in  the  mornings.  But  I 
could  not  do  this  at  evening ;  and  this  became  finally  a  most 
severe  trial,  for  it  so  happened,  that  you  now  adopted  a  habit 
which  left  him  entirely  unrestrained,  unless  in  the  manner  of  his 
reception  by  myself.  You  now  seldom  remained  at  home  of  an 
evening,  and  thus  deprived  me  of  that  natural  protector  whose 
presence  would  have  spared  me  much  pain  with  which  I  will 
not  distress  you.  Ah  !  dearest  husband,  why  did  you  leave  me 
on  such  occasions  ?  "Why  did  you  abandon  me  to  the  two-fold 
affliction  of  combating  the  approaches  of  impertinence,  at  the 
very  moment  when  I  was  suffering  from  the  dreadful  apprehen- 
sion that  I  no  longer  possessed  those  charms  which  had  won  me  the 
affections  of  a  husband.  Forgive  me!  My  purpose  is  not  to  reproach, 
but  to  entreat  you. 

"I  need  not  pass  over  the  long  period  through  wtiich  this 
persecution  continued.  Your  indifference  seemed  to  me  to  give 
stimulus  to  the  perseverance  of  this  young  man.  Numberless 
little  circumstances  combined  to  make  me  think  that,  from  this 
cause,  indeed,  he  drew  something  like  encouragement  for  his 
audacious  hopes.  The  strength  of  your  friendship  for  him 
blinded  you  to  attentions  which,  it  seemed  to  me,  every  eye 
must  have  seen  but  yours.  I  grew  more  and  more  alarmed ; 
and  a  second  time  consulted  with  my  mother.  Her  written 
answer  you  will  find,  marked  No.  1,  with  the  rest  of  the  enclo- 
sures in  this  envelope.  She  laughed  at  my  apprehensions,  in 


REVELATION — THE  LETTER  OF  JULIA.  391 

sisted  that  Mr.  Edgerton  had  not  transcended  the  customary 
privileges,  and  intimated,  very  plainly  as  you  will  see,  that  a 
wife  can  suffer  nothing  from  the  admiration  of  a  person,  not  her 
husband,  however  undisguised  this  admiration  may  be — pro- 
vided she  herself  shows  none  in  return  ; — an  opinion  with  which 
I  could  not  concur,  for  the  conclusive  reason  that,  whatever  the 
world  may  think  on  such  a  subject,  the  object  of  admiration,  if 
she  has  any  true  sensibilities,  must  herself  suffer  annoyance,  as 
I  did,  from  the  special  designation  which  attends  such  peculiar 
and  marked  attention  as  that  to  which  I  was  subjected.  My 
mother  took  much  pains,  verbally  and  in  writing,  as  the  within 
letters  will  show  you,  to  relieve  me  from  the  feeling  of  disquiet 
under  which  I  suffered,  but  without  effect ;  and  I  was  further 
painfully  afflicted  by  the  impression  which  her  general  tone  of 
thought  forced  upon  me,  that  her  sense  of  propriety  was  so  loose 
and  uncertain  that  I  could  place  no  future  reliance  upon  her 
councils  in  relation  to  this  or  any  other  kindred  subject.  Ah,  Ed- 
ward !  little  can  you  guess  how  lonely  and  desolate  I  felt,  when, 
unable  any  longer  to  refer  to  her,  I  still  did  not  dare  to  look 
to  you. 

"  One  opinion  of  hers,  however,  had  very  much  alarmed  me. 
You  will  find  it  expressed  in  the  letter  marked  No.  3,  in  this 
collection.  When  I  complained  to  her  of  the  approaches  of 
Mr.  Edgerton,  and  declared  my  purpose  of  appealing  to  you  if 
they  were  continued,  she  earnestly  and  expressly  exhorted  me 
against  any  such  proceeding.  She  assured  me  that  such  a 
step  would  only  lead  to  violence  and  bloodshed — reminded 
me  of  your  sudden  anger — your  previous  duel — and  insisted 
that  nothing  more  was  necessary  to  check  the  impertinence 
than  my  own  firmness  and  dignity.  Perhaps  this  would 
have  been  enough,  were  it  always  practicable  to  maintain  the 
reserve  and  coldness  which  was  proper  to  effect  this  object, 
and,  indeed,  I  could  not  but  perceive  that  the  effect  was  pro- 
duced in  considerable  degree  by  this  course.  Mr.  Edgerton 
visited  the  house  less  frequently ;  grew  less  impressive  in  his 
manner,  and  much  more  humble,  until  that  painful  and  humili- 
ating night  of  my  mother's  marriage.  That  night  he  asked  me 
to  dance  with  him.  I  declined ;  but  afterward  he  came  to  me 
accompanied  by  my  mother,  She  whispered  in  my  ears  that  I 


592  CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

was  harsh  in  my  refusal,  and  called  my  attention  to  his  wretch 
ed  appearance.  Had  I  reflected  upon  it  then,  as  I  did  after- 
ward, this  very  allusion  would  have  been  sufficient  to  have 
determined  me  not  to  consent  j — but  I  was  led  away  by  her 
suggestions  of  pity,  and  stood  up  with  him  for  a  cotillion.  But 
the  music  changed,  the  set  was  altered,  and  the  Spanish  dance 
was  substituted  in  its  place.  In  the  course  of  this  dance,  I 
could  no*  deceive  myself  as  to  the  degree  of  presumption  which 
my  partner  displayed ;  and,  but  for  the  appearance  of  the  thing, 
and  because  I  did  not  wish  to  throw  the  room  into  disorder,  I 
would  have  stopped  and  taken  my  seat  long  before  it  was  over. 
When  I  did  take  my  seat,  I  found  myself  still  attended  by  him, 
and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  succeeded  finally  in  defeating 
his  perseverance,  by  throwing  myself  into  the  midst  of  a  set  of 
elderly  ladies,  where  he  could  no  longer  distinguish  me  with 
his  attentions.  In  the  meantime  you  had  left  the  room.  You 
had  deserted  me.  Ah !  Clifford,  to  what  annoyance  did  your 
absence  expose  me  that  night !  To  that  absence,  do  we  owe 
that  I  lost  the  only  dear  pledge  of  love  that  God  had  ever  vouch- 
safed us  —  and  you  know  how  greatly  my  own  life  was  perilled. 
Think  not,  dearest,  that  I  speak  this  to  reproach  you ;  and  yet 
— could  you  have  remained!  —  could  you  have  loved,  and 
longed  to  be  and  remain  with  me,  as  most  surely  did  I  long  for 
your  presence  only  and  always — ah!  how  much  sweeter  had 
been  our  joys — how  more  pure  our  happtness  —  our  faith — with 
now — perhaps,  even  now — the  dear  angel  whom  we  then  lost, 
living  and  smiling  beneath  our  eyes,  and  linking  our  mutual 
hearts  more  and  more  firmly  together  than  before ! 

"  That  night,  when  it  became  impossible  to  remain  longer 
without  trespassing — when  all  the  other  guests  had  gone — I 
consented  to  be  taken  home  in  Mr.  Edgerton's  carriage.  Had 
I  dreamed  that  Mr.  Edgerton  was  to  have  been  my  companion, 
I  should  have  remained  all  night  before  I  would  have  gone  with 
him,  knowing  what  I  knew,  and  feeling  the  mortification  which 
I  felt.  But  my  mother  assured  me  that  I  was  to  have  the  car- 
riage to  myself — it  was  she  who  had  procured  it; — and  it  was 
not  until  I  was  seated,  and  beheld  him  enter,  that  I  had  th' 
least  apprehension  of  such  an  intrusion.  Edward !  it  is  with  a 
feeling:  almost  amounting:  to  horror,  that  I  am  constrained  to 


BEVELATION  — THE  LETTER  OF  JULU.  S93 

think  that  my  mother  not  only  knew  of  his  intension  tj  ai- 
company  me,  but  that  she  herself  suggested  it.  This,  I  say  to 
you  !  You  will  find  the  reasons  for  my  suspicions  in  the  letters 
which  I  enclose.  It  is  a  dreadful  suspicion — at  the  expense  of 
cna'c  own  mother  !  I  dare  not  believe  in  the  dark  malice  which 
it  implies. —  I  strive  to  think  that  she  meant  and  fancisd  only 
soma  pleasant  mischief. 

*'  I  shudder  to  declare  the  rest !  This  man,  your  friend — he 
whom  you  sheltered  in  your  bosom,  and  trusted  beyond  all 
others — whom  you  have  now  taken  into  your  house  with  a 
blindness  that  looks  more  like  a  delusion  of  witchcraft  than  of 
friendship — this  impious  man,  I  say,  dared  to  wrap  me  in  big 
embrace — dared  to  press  his  lips  upon  mine  ! 

"  My  cheek  even  now  burns  as  I  write,  and  I  must  lay  down 
tlis  pen  because  of  my  trembling  I  struggled  from  his  grasj 
— I  broke  the  window  by  my  side,  and  cried  for  help  from  tba 
wayfarers.  I  cried  for  you !  3u<  you  did  not  answer !  Ob, 
husband !  where  were  you  ?  Why,  why  did  you  exposo  zna  ta 
such  indignities  ? 

"He  was  alarmed.  He  prcrrJsed  me  forbearance ;  and,  con- 
vulsed with  fright  and  fear,  I  found  mysolf  within  our  enclosure, 
I  knew  not  how ;  but  before  I  reached  the  cottage  I  became  in- 
sensible, and  knew  nothing  more  until  the  pangs  of  labor 
subdued  the  more  lasting  pains  of  thought  and  recollection. 

"You  resolved  to  leave  our  home — to  go  abroad  among 
strangers,  and  Oh  !  how  I  rejoiced  at  your  resolution.  It  seem- 
ed to  promise  me  happiness ;  at  least  it  promised  me  rescue  and 
*c£ief.  I  eLnuld  at  all  events  be  free  from  the  persecution  of 
this  man,  I  dreaded  the  consequences,  either  to  you  or  to  him- 
*sAf,  of  the  exposure  of  his  insolence.  I  had  resolved  oa 
*n*king  ft ;  and  on".y  hesitated,  day  by  day,  as  my  mother  dwelt 
tho  ian^ers  which  would  follow.  And  when  you  deter- 
L  on  removal,  it  seemed  to  me  the  most  fortunate  provi- 
**  "^  it  promised  to  spare  me  the  necessity  of  making  this 
r3 relation  at  aT..  Surely,  I  thought,  and  my  mother 

?3,  *&  this  will  put  an  effictral  stop  to  his  presumption,  there 
Hill  te  no  need  to  narrate  what  is  already  past.  The  only  mo- 
&te  in  telling  it  at  all  w:>uld  be  to  prevent,  not  to  punish  :  if 
tfo  prev  .-lirr.  is  effected  by  oth^r  means,  it  is  charity  only  tc 


394:  CONFESSION,   OB  THE  BLIND   HEART. 

forbear  the  relation  of  matters  which  would  breed  hatred,  and 
probably  provoke  strife.  This  made  me  silent;  and,  fall 
of  new  hope — ike  hope  that  having  discarded  all  your  o!5 
Ebdociates  and  removed  from  all  your  old  haunts,  you  wcuJc1 
become  mine  entirely — I  felt  a  new  strength  in  my  fraro 
a  new  life  in  my  breast,  and  a  glow  upon  my  cheeks  as  wU'» 
in  my  soul,  which  seemed  a  guaranty  for  a  long  and  ha,;  / 
term  of  that  love  which  had  begun  in  my  boscm  with  the  £.r:t 
moments  of  its  childish  consciousness  and  confidence. 

"  But  one  painful  scene  and  hour  I  was  yet  compelled  to  en- 
dure the  night  before  our  departure.  Mr.  Edgerton  came  to 
play  his  flute  under  our  window.  I  say  Mr.  Edgerton,  but  it 
was  only  by  a  sort  of  instinct  that  I  fixed  upon  him  as  the 
musician.  Perhaps  it  was  because  I  knew  not  what  other  per- 
son to  suspect.  Frequently,  before  this  night,  had  I  heard  tV,j 
music ;  but  on  this  occasion  he  seemed  to  have  approached  more 
nearly  to  the  dwelling ;  and,  inleed,  I  finally  discovered  that  In 
was  actually  beneath  the  China-tree  that  stood  on  the  sou^i 
front  of  the  cottage.  I  was  asleej  when  the  music  began.  H* 
must  have  been  playing  for  some  time  before  I  awakened.  HOT 
I  was  awakened  I  know  not ;  but  something  disturbed  me,  and 
I  then  saw  you  about  to  leave  the  room  stealthily.  I  heard 
your  feet  upon  the  stairs,  and  in  the  next  moment  I  discovered 
one  of  your  pistols  lying  upon  the  window-sill,  just  beneath  my 
eyes.  This  alarmed  me ;  a  thousand  apprehensions  rushed  into 
my  brain ;  all  the  suggestions  of  strife  and  bloodshed  trhich  my 
mother  had  ever  told  me,  filled  my  mind ;  and  without  ktt  ~a  Ing 
exactly  what  I  did  or  said,  I  called  out  to  the  musician  to  S  •» 
with  all  possible  speed.  He  did  so ;  and  after  a  delay  whic£ 
was  to  me  one  of  the  most  cruel  apprehension,  you  returned  in 
Bafety.  Whether  you  suspected,  and  what,  I  could  not  conjee 
lure ;  but  if  you  had  any  suspicions  of  me,  you  did  not  seem  tz 
entertain  any  of  him,  for  you  spoke  of  him  afterward  with  tte 
same  warm  tone  of  friendship  as  before. 

"  That  something  in  my  conduct  had  not  pleased  yon,  I  could 
see  from  your  deportment  as  we  travelled  the  next  rooming 
You  were  sad,  and  very  silent  and  abstracted.  This  disa^, 
peared,  however,  and,  day  by  day,  my  happiness,  my  hope,  my 
•sonfidence  in  you,  in  myself,  in  nil  things,  increased — and  I 


REVELATION — THE  LETTER  OP  JULIA.  8£* 

felt  assured  of  realizing  that  perfect  idea  of  felicity  which  I  pix,  • 
posed  to  myself  from  the  moment  when  you  declared  your  pur- 
pose to  emigrate.  Were  we  not  happy,  husband  —  so  happy  at 

M ,  for  weeks,  for   months — always,  morning,  noon,  anc! 

night  —  until  the  reappearance  of  this  false  friend  of  yoursl 
Then,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  everything  changed.  Then,  that 
other  friend  of  yours — who,  though  he  never  treated  me  with 
aught  hut  respect,  I  yet  can  call  no  friend  of  mine  —  Mr, 
Kingsley,  drew  you  away  again  from  your  home  —  carried  you 
with  him  to  his  haunts — detained  you  late  and  long,  by  night 
and  day — and  I  was  left  once  more  exposed  to  the  free  and 
frequent  familiarity  of  Mr.  Edgerton.  He  renewed  his  former 
habits ;  his  looks  were  more  presuming,  and  his  attentions  more 
direct  and  loathsome  than  ever.  More  than  once  I  strove  to 
Bpeak  with  you  on  this  hateful  subject ;  but  it  was  so  shocking, 
and  you  were  so  fond  of  him,  and  I  still  had  my  fears !  At 
length,  moved  by  compassion,  you  brought  him  to  our  house. 
Blind  and  devoted  to  him  —  with  a  blindness  and  devotion  be- 
yond that  which  the  noblest  friendship  would  deserve,  but  which 
renders  tenfold  more  hateful  the  dishonest  and  treacherous 
parson  upon  whom  it  is  thrown  away — you  command  me  to 
meet  him  with  kindness — to  tend  his  bed  of  sickness — to 
soothe  his  moments  of  sadness  and  despondency — to  expose 
ryself  to  his  insolence ! 

*  Husband .   my  soul  revolts  at  this  charge !     I  have  dis- 
«. ;  sysd  it  and  you ;  and  I  must  justify  myself  in  this  my  dis- 

•  cusnce.  I  must  at  length  declare  the  truth.  I  have  striven 
,c  >o  so  in  the  preceding  narrative.  This  narrative  I  began 
<v  er  you  brought  thie  false  friend  into  our  dwelling.  He  must 

;?av3  it.  You  must  command  his  departure.  Do  not  think  me 
mo  fed  by  any  unhappy  or  unbecoming  prejudices  against  him 
aid  y  antipathies  have  arisen  solely  from  his  presumption  and 
iii&conduct.  I  esteemed  him — nay,  I  even  liked  him  —  before. 
L  liked  his  taste  for  the  arts,  hie  amiable  manners,  his  love  of 
music  and  poetry,  and  all  those  graces  of  the  superior  mind  and 
vlueation,  which  dignify  humanity,  and  indicate  its  probable 
But  when  he  showed  me  how  false  he  was  to  a 
so  free  and  confiding  as  was  yours  —  when  he  abused 
and  ears  with  expressions  unbecoming  in  him,  and  in- 


396  CONFESSION,     OR    THE    BLIND    HEART 

suiting  and  ungenerous  to  me  —  I  loathed  and  spurned  him. 
While  he  is  in  your  house  I  will  strive  and  treat  him  civilly, 
but  do  not  tax  me  further.  For  your  sake  I  have  borne  much ; 
for  the  sake  of  peace,  and  to  avoid  strife  and  crime,  I  have 
been  silent — perhaps  too  long.  The  strange,  improper  letters, 
of  niy  mother,  which  I  enclose,  almost  make  me  tremble  to 
think  that  I  have  paid  but  too  much  defference  to  her  opinion. 
But,  in  the  expulsion  of  this  miserable  man  from  your  dwelling, 
there  needs  no  violence,  there  needs  no  crime  !  A  word  will 
overwhelm  him  with  shame.  Remember,  dear  husband,  that  he  is 
feeble  and  sick;  it  is  probable  he  has  not  long  to  live.  Perform 
your  painful  duty  privily,  and  with  all  the  forbearance  which  is 
consistent  with  a  proper  firmness.  In  truth,  he  has  done  us  no 
real  harm.  Let  us  remember  that!  If  anything,  he  has  only 
made  me  love  you  the  more,  by  showing  so  strongly  how 
generous  is  the  nature  which  he  has  so  infamously  abused. 
Once  more,  dear  husband,  do  no  violence.  Let  not  our  future 
days  be  embittered  by  any  recollections  of  the  present.  Com- 
mand, compel  his  departure,  and  come  home  to  me,  and  keep  with 
me  always.  "  Your  own  true  wife, 

"  JULIA  CLIFFOHD." 

''Postscript. — I  had  closed  this  letter  yesterday,  thinking  to 
send  it  to  your  office  in  the  afternoon.  I  had  hoped  that  there 
would  be  nothing  more  ;  —  but  last  night,  this  madman  —  for 
such  I  must  believe  him  to  be  —  committed  another  outrage 
upon  my  person!  He  has  a  second  time  seized  me  in  his  arms 
and  endeavored  to  grasp  me  in  his  embrace.  O  husband ! — 
why,  why  do  you  thus  expose  me  ?  Do  you  indeed  love  me  ? 
I  sometimes  tremble  with  a  fear  lest  you  do  not.  But  I  dare 
not  think  so.  Yet,  if  you  do,  why  am  I  thus  exposed — thus 
deserted — thus  left  to  a  companionship  which  is  equally  loath- 
some to  me  and  dishonoring  to  you  ?  I  implore  you  to  open 
your  eyes — to  believe  me,  and  discard  this  false  friend  from  your 
Swelling  and  your  confidence.  But,  oh,  be  merciful,  .  dear 
husband  1  Strike  no  sudden  blow  !  Send  him  forth  with  scorn 
but  remember  his  feebleness,  his  family,  and  spare  his  life.  I 
send  this  by  Emma.  Let  no  one  see  the  letters  of  my  mother  but 
burn  them  instantly.  "Your  own 


BEVELATION — THE  LETTER  OP  JULIA.  397 

And  this  was  the  writing  which  had  employed  her  time  for 
lays  before  the  sad  catastrophe !  And  it  was  for  this  reason 
'hat  she  asked,  with  so  much  earnestness,  if  I  had  been  to  my 
office  on  the  day  wheji  I  drove  Edgerton  out  into  the  woods  for 
•,he  adjustment  of  our  issue?  No  wonder  that  she  was  anxious 
it  that  moment.  How  much  depended  upon  that  simple  and 
ordinary  proceeding.  Had  I  but  gone  that  day  to  my  office  aa 
usual ! 

There  were  no  longer  doubts.  There  could  bo  none.  There 
*  -p.e  now  no  mystery.  It  was  all  clear.  The  most  ambiguous 

»*tions  of  her  conduct  had  been  as  easily  and  simply  explained 

e  rest.     But  it  availed  nothing !     The  blow  had  fallen.     I 

7&J  an  accursed  man  —  truly  accursed,  and  miserably  desolate. 

I  still  sat,  stolid,  seemingly,  as  the  insensible  chair  which  sus- 
tained me,  when  Kingsley  came  in.  He  took  the  papers  from 
uiy  unresisting  ",ands.  He  read  them  in  silence.  I  heard  but 

.  i  sentence  from  Lis  lips,  and  it  came  from  them  unconscious- 
f :  - 

r  oor,  poor  gir*.  j;; 

J  locked  rondel  and  etartel  to  my  feet.  The  tears  were  on 
."air  -nanly  checks  I  I  a  I  shed  nor?**.  My  «yes  were  dry  !  The 
foantains  of  tears  seemed  shut  up,  &r*d  and  .  iiiety. 

"I  must  make  atonement!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  must  delivei 
myself  up  to  justice  !" 

"  This  is  madness,"  said  he,  seizing  my  arm  as  I  was  about 
to  leave  the  room. 

"  No :  retribution  only !  I  have  destroyed  her.  I  must 
make  the  only  atonement  which  is  in  my  power.  I  must  die  !f 

"What  you  'design  is  none,"  he  said  solemnly.  "Your 
death  will  atone  nothing.  It  is  by  living  only  that  you  can 
atone !" 

"How?" 

"By  repentance!  This  is  the  grand — the  only  sovereign 
atonement  wnieh  the  spirit  of  man  can  ever  make.  There  ia 
no  other  mode  provided  in  nature.  The  laws,  which  would 
take  your  life,  would  deprive  you  of  the  means  of  atonement. 
This  is  due  to  God ;  it  can  be  performed  only  by  living  and 
Life  is  a  duty  because  it  is  an  ordeal  You  must 


CONFESSION,   OR  THE  BLIND   HEART, 

preserve  life,  as  a  sacred  trust,  for  this  reason.  Even  if  you 
were  a  felon — one  wilfully  resolving  and  coldly  executing  crime 
—you  were  yet  bound  to  preserve  life !  Throw  it  away,  and 
though  you  comply  with  the  demand  of  sogial  laws,  you  forfeit 
the  only  chance  of  making  atonement  to  those  which  are  far 
superior.  Rather  pray  that  life  may  be  spared  you.  It  was 
with  this  merciful  purpose  that  God  not  only  permitted  Cain  to 
live,  but  commanded  that  none  should  slay  him.  You  must  live 
for  this !" 

"Yet  I  slew  her  /" 

He  did  with  me  as  he  pleased.  Three  days  after  beheld  us 
on  our  way  to  the  rich  empire  of  Texas — its  plains,  rich  but 
barren — unstocked,  wild — running  to  waste  with  its  tangled 
weeds — needing,  imploring  the  vigorous  hand  of  cultivation 
Even  such,  at  that  moment,  was  my  heart !  Rich  in  fertile 
affections,  yet  gone  to  waste ;  waiting,  craving,  praying  for  the 
hand  of  the  cultivator  ! — Yet  who  now  was  that  cultivator  ? 

To  this  question  the  words  of  Kingsley,  which  were  those  of 
truth  and  wisdom,  were  a  sufficient  answer ;  and  evermore  an 
echo  arose  as  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul ;  and  my  lips  repeated 
it  to  my  own  ears  only ;  and  but  one  word  was  spoken ;  and 
that  word  was — "  ATONEMENT  !" 


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